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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822  02501  8847 


LIBRARY  ^ 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIESO       J 


EVERYMAN'S  LIBRARY 

423 
FICTION 


Everyman,  I  will  go  with  thee,  and  be  thy  guide, 
In  thy  most  need  to  go  by  thy  side 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET,  born  at  Nimes  on 
13th  May  1840.  Settled  down  in  Paris  and 
devoted  himself  entirely  to  authorship  after 
1866.  Health  gave  way  in  1890  and  he  died 
in  Paris  in  December  1897. 

Jean-Pierre    Richard    is    a    Professor    of    the 
Institut  Frangais  du  Royaume-Uni. 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 
TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 


TARTARIN  ON  THE  ALPS 

INTRODUCTION    BY 

JEAN-PIERRE  RICHARD 


LONDON    J.  M.  DENT  &  SONS  LTD 
NEWYORK   E.P.  DUTTON&CO  INC 


All  rights  reserved 

by 

J.  M.  DENT  &  SONS  LTD 

Aldine  House  •  Bedford  Street  •  London 

Made  in  Great  Britain 

at 

The  Aldine  Press  •  Letchworth  •  Herts 

First  pubUshed  1872 

First  published  in  this  edition  1910 

Last  reprinted  1954 


INTRODUCTION 

Tartarin's  creator  was  born  under  southern  skies :  Alphonse 
Daudet  first  saw  the  hght  at  Nimes  on  13th  May  1840.  After 
completing  his  secondary  education  at  Lyons  grammar 
school  he  took  a  post  as  usher  in  a  school  at  Ales^  an  episode 
of  his  life  which  he  afterwards  described  in  Le  Petit  Chose. 
Later  he  moved  to  Paris  and  there  published  his  book,  a 
collection  of  verse  entitled  Les  Amour euses.  From  i860  to 
1865  he  was  secretary  to  the  Due  de  Morny. 

Daudet  was  now  launched  upon  the  world,  and  his  youthful 
charm,  his  ardour,  his  friendliness  made  success  inevitable. 
He  embarked  on  a  literary  career  and,  under  the  powerful 
influence  of  Musset  and  Murger,  threw  in  his  lot  with  the 
Fantasist  group.  But  the  war  of  1870  and  his  marriage 
soon  developed  his  talent.  He  read  Dickens  and  enjoyed 
the  company  of  writers  like  Zola  and,  above  all,  Edmond  de 
Goncourt;  his  understanding  deepened,  and  he  gained  much 
in  sincerity  and  authenticity.  Though  never  deserving  of 
the  epithet  "  naturalistic,"  he  devoted  a  great  deal  of  atten- 
tion to  accuracy  and  documentation;  so  that  his  best  novels 
{Le  Nabab,  Kiima  Roimiestan,  Sapho)  are  notable  for  their 
felicitous  combination  of  historical  fact  with  poetry.  This, 
together  with  the  fact  that  Daudet  never  succumbed  to  the 
lure  of  sentimentality  or  hypersensitiveness,  renders  those 
works  both  interesting  documents  of  the  period  and  evidences 
of  a  rare  personal  sensibility.  It  is  probably  this  admixture 
of  opposites  which  has  assured  his  popularity  with  a  large 
and  faithful  public  both  in  France  and  elsewhere.  He  died 
on  i6th  December  1897. 

Amid  Daudet's  vast  and  varied  output  the  story  of  Tartarin 
occupies  a  unique  place.  Fundamentally,  of  course,  it  is 
akin  to  his  other  "southern"  works  {Lettres  de  mon  Moulin, 
Numa  Roumestan),  but  its  roots  are  to  be  found  neither  in 
the  conte  nor  in  the  roinan  des  mosurs:  it  is  more  like  a  kind 
of  lyric  farce  or  some  huge  heroi-comic  fresco,  which  does  not 
quite  manage  to  sustain  the  warmth  of  imagination  and 
impetuosity  of  its  opening  {Adventures  of  Tartarin  of  Taras- 
con)  in  the  later  episodes  {Port-Tar  as  con,  1890;  and  even 
Tartarin  on  the  Alps,  1885).     The  three  parts  of  the  story 


vi  Tartarin 

centre  upon  a  single  hero;  but  as  one  proceeds  from  one  to 
the  other  one  receives  an  impression  that  Tartarin  is  growing 
old  and  dull,  that  he  is  becoming  a  mere  automaton,  that  the 
mirth  is  forced,  and  the  caricature  no  more  than  a  grimace. 
In  short,  it  appears  that  Tartarin  himself  cannot  resist  that 
rising  tide  of  sadness  which  is  really  the  dominant  character- 
istic of  Daudet's  internal  world. 

The  true  Tartarin,  then,  is  the  Tartarin  of  1872 :  a  complex 
personality  who,  in  spite  of  his  claim  to  represent  a  genuine 
human  type,  is  not  without  literary  ancestors.  One  can 
detect  his  resemblance  to  the  great  boasters  of  comic  tradition, 
from  the  Miles  gloriosus  to  Matamore.  Daudet,  however, 
reveals  also  his  descent  from  Don  Quixote  out  of  Sancho 
Panza.  Tartarin  reminds  one  no  less  of  Marius,  a  hero  who 
still  lives  in  every  Marseillaise  story-book:  he  is  boastful, 
imaginative,  impulsive,  yet  prudent  and  always  ready  to  go 
one  better.  His  physique — that  fat  belly,  those  large  eyes, 
that  little  goatee  beard,  those  "double  muscles" — makes 
him  a  comic  figure;  but  his  craving  for  excitement,  his  love 
of  the  heroic,  his  horror  of  humdrum  reality  link  him  with 
the  far  nobler  line  of  romanticism. 

One  might  almost  describe  Tartarin  as  the  brother  of 
Emma  Bovary.  Like  her,  he  struggles  in  the  stifling  atmo- 
sphere of  provincial  life,  dreams  of  flight  that  is  in  fact  im- 
possible, and  knows  the  intoxication  of  books.  But  the 
books  which  he  devours  concern  not  love  but  hunting:  that 
is  the  sole  difference  between  him  and  Mme  Bovary.  In 
Tartarin  Daudet  pokes  fun  not  so  much  at  the  romanticism 
of  sentiment  as  at  that  of  adventure  and  the  exotic,  a  roman- 
ticism which  he  understands  so  well  from  having  experienced 
its  appeal.  He  wished,  in  short  to  satirize  in  the  person  of 
Tartarin  his  own  youthful  illusions,  the  dreams  he  dreamed 
when  twenty  years  of  age. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  is  written  as  it  were  in  a  minor  key: 
it  is  one  of  those  tales  of  youthful  striving  and  disillusionment 
which  is  an  essential  type  of  French  novel  in  the  nineteenth 
century.  Its  lightness  and  gaiety  forbid  comparison  with 
Illusions  per  dues  or  Education  sentimentale;  but  if  one  can 
manage  to  forget  the  predominantly  comic  element  and  the 
constant  gentleness  of  the  narrative,  one  is  impressed  by  the 
sadness  of  the  tale  and  by  the  pessimism  of  its  conclusions. 


Tartarin  vii 

Tartarin  is  a  somewhat  cruel  picture  of  French  provincial 
life,  a  brutal  description  of  Africa — dishonest,  starving,  im- 
moral, artificial  as  the  scenery  of  an  operetta — where  a 
candid  soul  can  neither  believe  nor  trust  in  anything.  The 
hero's  undoing  is  his  serious  outlook :  towards  the  end  of  the 
story  he  discovers  that  the  world  is  but  a  farce,  that  no  faith 
is  possible,  and  that  wisdom  consists  in  recognizing  the 
universal  imposture.  Tartarin,  then,  is  the  king  of  clowns: 
perched  up  there  on  the  mosque  at  Algiers,  he  joyously  recites 
a  whole  rosary  of  Proven9al  curses ;  after  which,  events  prove 
irresistible — all  he  can  do  is  to  return  home  and  accept  things 
as  they  are. 

Yet  this  return  proves  no  defeat:  Tartarin  is  welcomed  as 
a  conqueror  by  his  fellow  countrymen,  and  soon  forgets  his 
misfortune.  Deaf  to  the  lessons  of  reality,  unaffected  by  the 
education  of  life,  the  happy  victim  of  his  own  imagination, 
he  eludes  classification  as  romantic  or  anti-romantic,  and 
escapes  into  the  realms  of  fantasy.  He  is  joyous,  incorrigible, 
unshakable,  invulnerable,  indomitable,  supple,  and  resilient 
as  a  hero  of  Swift  or  of  Voltaire.  It  is  right,  therefore,  that 
his  adventures  are  related  on  a  good-humoured  note,  behind 
which  one  can  hear  the  voice  of  the  story-teller :  Tartarin  thus 
represents  the  supreme  achievement  of  a  literature  that  is 
"lived,  spoken,  and  gesticulated,"  a  literature  that  is  closely 
akin  to  the  Langue  d'Oc  which  some  of  Daudet's  enthusiastic 
friends  were  at  that  time  endeavouring  to  revive.  This 
"oral"  quality  lends  the  narrative  its  warmth  of  imagination, 
its  humour,  its  rapidity.  It  brings  us  closer  to  Daudet 
himself:  laying  aside  for  a  while  the  spirit  of  sarcasm,  he 
devotes  himself  to  what  is,  perhaps,  his  true  vocation  as  a 
writer — to  the  joy  of  experience  and  description.  Daudet 
used  to  describe  himself  as  a  "machine  for  feeling";  he  spoke 
of  himself  as  "porous  and  penetrable,  full  of  impressions 
and  sensations  that  would  fill  a  heap  of  books."  Tartarin, 
at  any  rate,  is  full  of  such  sensations.  They  enable  him  to 
paint  his  hero's  adventures  against  a  delightful  background 
of  experience,  of  landscape — the  Provencal  countryside,  the 
port  of  Marseilles,  Africa — which,  by  their  vitality  and  fresh- 
ness, constitute  one  of  the  principal  charms  of  his  book. 
There  is  a  delicate  equilibrium  between  memory  and  fantasy, 
between  the  imaginary  and  the  real. 


viii  Tartarin 

Before  concluding  I  should  say  a  word  about  the  problem 
of  Tartarin' j  sociological  value:  does  the  story  accurately 
portray  a  Frenchman  from  the  south?  Daudet  himself 
never  claimed  that  it  did.  He  painted  Tartarin  true  to  hfe; 
but  in  his  day,  as  in  our  own,  your  southerner,  though 
volatile,  imaginative,  and  a  good  talker,  was  equally  level- 
headed and  even  sceptical:  he  is  more  often  the  source  than 
the  object  of  satire,  as  witness  the  comedies  of  Marcel  Pagnol. 
If  he  abandons  himself  to  the  grand  "mirage"  of  which 
Daudet  speaks,  he  does  so  with  the  impetuosity  of  a  mystic  or 
a  poet,  like  the  heroes  of  Henri  Bosco  and  Jean  Giono.  Tar- 
tarin, in  fact,  represents  just  himself,  and  that  is  sufificient. 
He  is  immortal  because  he  is  joyously,  dehberately  unreal. 

JEAN-PIERRE  RICHARD. 


The  following  table  gives  the  chronology  of  his  books: 

Les  Amoureuses  (poesies),  1858;  La  Double  Conversion  (a  tale  in 
verse),  1861;  Le  Roman  du  Chaperon-Rouge,  1862;  Lettres  sur  Paris 
("Petit  Moniteur"),  1865;  Le  Petit  Chose,  histoire  d'un  enfant,  1868; 
Lettres  de  mon  moiilin  (evenement),  1869;  Lettres  a  un  absent,  1870-1; 
Aventures  prodigieuses  de  Tartarin  de  Tarascon,  1872;  Les  Petits 
Robinsons  du  cave,  ou  le  siege  de  Paris,  raconte  par  une  petite  fille  de  huit 
ans,  1872;  Contes  du  Lundi,  1873;  Contes  et  recits  (chielly  tales  which 
had  already  appeared  in  Lettres  a  un  absent  and  Contes  du  Lundi), 
1873;  Les  Fenimes  d' Artistes,  1874;  Fremont  jeune  et  Risler  aine,  1874; 
Robert  Helmont,  etudes  et  paysages,  1874;  Jack,  1876;  Contes  choisis, 
i?>y7;  Le  Nabab,  1877;  Les  Rois  en  exil,  1879;  La  Fantaisie  et 
Vhistoire,  1879;  Numa  Roumestan,  1881;  L'Evangeliste,  1883;  Les 
Cigognes  (for  children),  1883;  Sapho,  1884;  Tartarin  sur  les  Alpcs, 
1885;  La  Belle  Nibernaise,  Histoire  du'n  vieux  bateau,  etc.,  1886; 
Trente  ans  de  Paris  a  travers  ma  vie  et  mes  livres,  1888;  L'Immortel, 
1888;  Souvenirs  d'un  homme  de  lettres,  1888;  Port-Tarascon,  1890;  Rose 
et  Ninette,  1892;  Entre  les  frises  et  la  rampe,  1894;  La  Petite  Paroisse, 
1895;  Contes  d'hiver,  i8g6;  Trois  souvenirs,  1896;  L'Enterrement  d'une 
etoile,  1896;  Le  Fcdor,  pages  de  la  vie,  1897;  Le  Tresor  d'Arlatan,  1897; 
Soutien  de  famille,  1898;  Notes  sur  la  vie,  1899. 

Drama.  La  Dernii-re  Idole,  1862;  Les  Absents,  1863;  UCEillet  blanc, 
1865;  Le  Frere  aine,  1868;  Le  Sacrifice,  1869;  L'Arlesienne,  1872;  Lise 
Tavernier,  1872;  Le  Cfiar,  1878;  La  Lutte  pour  la  vie,  1890;  L'Obstacle, 
1891.     Many  of  Daudet's  novels  were  also  dramatized. 

An  Edition  Definitive  of  Daudet's  works  was  published  in  1899 
(with  a  literary  biography  by  H.  Ceard). 

Life.  J.  Claretie,  1883;  H.  Le  Roux:  Notre  Patron:  Alphonse 
Daudet,  1888;  R.  Doumic:  Portraits  d'ecrivains,  1892;  R.  H.  Sherard, 
1894;  L.  A.  Daudet,  1898;  A.  Hermant,  1903;  W.  A.  Munro:  Charles 
Dickens  et  A.  Daudet,  1908;  G.  Benoit-Guyod:  Alphonse  Daudet,  1947; 
and  in  English:  Joseph  Conrad:  Alphonse  Daudet,  1920;  G.  V.  Doric: 
Alphonse  Daudet,  1949. 


CONTENTS 

TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

EPISODE  THE  FIRST 

IN  TARASCON 

CHAP. 

I.  The  Garden  round  the  Giant  Trees 

II.  A  general  Glance  bestowed  upon  the  good  Town 
OF  Tarascon,  and  a  particular  one  on  "  the  Cap- 
poppers  "...•••• 


PAGE 


III.  "  Naw!     naw!     naw!"     The    general   Glance    pro 

TRACTED    UPON    THE    GOOD    ToWN       ... 

IV.  "  They!  " 

V.    How   TaRTARIN    WENT    ROUND    TO    HIS    ClUB 

VI.  The  Two  Tartarins ^3 

VII.  Tartarin — The  Europeans  at  Shanghai — Commerce — 
The  Tartars  —  Can  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  be  an 
Impostor? — The  Mirage        .....        14 

VIII.  Mitaine's   Menagerie — A    Lion    from   the    Atlas    at 

Tarascon — A  solemn  and  fearsome  Confrontation       16 

IX.  Singular  Effects  of  Mental  Mirage       ...       19 

X.  Before  the  Start    .......       22 

XI.  "  Let's  have  it  out  with  Swords,  Gentlemen,   not 

Pins!" 23 

XII.  A  memorable  Dialogue  in  the  little  Baobab  Villa       25 

XIII.  The  Departure 27 

XIV.  The  Port  OF  Marseilles — "All  Aboard,  all  Aboard!"       29 

ix 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


EPISODE  THE  SECOND 

AMONG  "THE  TURKS" 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  The  Passage — The  five  Positions  of  the  Fez — The 
THIRD  Evening  out — Mercy  upon  us! 


II.  "To  Arms!    to  Arms!"     ..... 

III.  An  Invocation  to  Cervantes — The  Disembarkation 

— Where  are  the  Turks? — Not  a  sign  of  them — 
Disenchantment  ...... 

IV.  The  first  Lying  in  Wait  .... 
V.  Bang!    Bang!    ....... 


VI.  Arrival  of  the  Female — A  terrhjle  Combat- 
Fellows  Meet  Here!  "... 


"  Game 


VII.  About  an  Omnibus,  a  Moorish  Beauty,  and  a  Wreath 
of  Jessamine         ...... 

VIII.  Ye  Lions  of  the  Atlas,  repose  in  Peace! 

IX.  Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro 

X.  "  Tell  me  your  Father's  Name,  and  I  will  tell  you 
THE  Name  of  that  Flower  "... 

XI.  SiDi  Tart'ri  Be.n  T.\rt'ri  .... 

XII.  The  latest  Intelligence  from  Tarascon 


3^ 
35 

37 
39 
41 


46 

4« 


53 

56 
58 


EPISODE  THE  THIRD 

AMONG    THE    LIONS 

I.  Stage-coaches  in  Exile     .... 

II.  A    LITTLE    Gentleman    drops    in    and    "  drops 
Tartarin        ...... 


III.  A  Monastery  of  Lions       .... 

IV.  The  Caravan  on  the  March 

V.  The  Night-watch  in  a  Poison-tree  Grove 
VI.  Bagged  him  at  last  ..... 
VII.  Catastrophes  upon  Catastrophes 
\'III.  Tarascon  again!  .  .  .  .  . 


62 

65 
68 
71 
74 
78 
82 
85 


Contents  xi 


TARTARIN  ON  THE  ALPS 

chap.  page 

1.  An  Apparition  on  the  Rigi-Kulm — Who  is  he? — What 

WAS  SAID  AT  THE  TaBLE  d'HOTE RiCE  AND  PRUNES 

— An  improvised  Ball — The  Unknown  signs  his 
Name  in  the  Hotel  Register — P.  C.  A.     .  .       91 

II.  Tarascon,  Five  Minutes'  Stoppage  —  The  Alpine 
Club — Explanation  of  P.  C.  A. — Rabbits  of  the 
Warren  and  of  the  Cabbage-garden — "  This  is 
MY  Will  " — The  Sirop  de  Cadavre — First  Ascent 
— Tartarin  mounts  his  Spectacles     .  .  .      102 

III.  An   Alarm   on   the    Rigi — Be    cool!     be    cool! — The 

Alpine  Horn  —  What  Tartarin  found  on  his 
Looking-glass  when  he  awoke — Perplexity — He 
asks  for  a  Guide  by  Telephone        ,  .         .      116 

IV.  On  Board  the  Steamer— Rain — The  Hero  of  Tarascon 

SALiTES  the  Shades — The  Truth  about  William 
Tell — Disillusion  —  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
never  existed! — "Te!    Bombard!"    .  .  .      124 

V.  Confidences  in  a  Tunnel  .....     135 

VI.  The  Pass  of  the  Brcnig — Tartarin  falls  into  the 
Hands  of  the  Nihilists — Disappearance  of  an 
Italian  Tenor  and  an  Avignon  Rope — New  Ex- 
ploits of  a  Chasseur  de  Casquettes — Pan!    Pan!      141 

VII.  Night  at  Tarascon — Where  is  he? — Anxiety — The 
Cigales  du  Cours  demand  Tartarin — Martyrdom 
of  a  Tarascon  Saint — The  Alpine  Club — What 
happened  at  the  Chemist's — Help!    Bezuquet  .      153 

VIII.  Memorable  Dialogue  between  the  Jungfrau  and 
Tartarin — A  Nihilist  Salon — The  Duel  with 
Hunting-knives — Horrible  Nightmare — "  'Tis  I 
whom  you  seek,  Gentlemen!  " — Strange  Recep- 
tion of  the  Tarascon  Delegates  at  the  H6tel 
Meyer         ........     162 

IX.  At  the  Sign  of  "The  Faithful  Chamois"        .  .172 


xii  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 


CHAP.  PAGE 

X.  The  Ascent  of  the  Jungfrau — Vfi!  the  Oxen! — The 
Kennedy  CrampOiNS  do  not  answer;  neither  does 
the  Lamp — Appearance  of  masked  Men  at  the 
Chalet — The  President  in  the  Crevasse — He 
LEAVES  HIS  Spectacles  behind  him — On  the  Peaks 
— Tartarin  a  Deity   ......      i8o 

XI.  En  route  for  Tarascon! — -The  Lake  of  Geneva — 
Tartarin  suggests  a  Visit  to  Bonnivard's  Cell — 
A  short  Dialogue  amid  the  Roses — All  the  Band 
under  Lock  and  Key — The  unfortunate  Bonni- 

VARD A    certain    RoPE    MADE    IN    AviGNON    COMES 

TO  Light     ......  v  .      191 

Xn.  The  Hotel  Baltet  at  Chamoni.x — That  Smell  of 
Garlic! — Concerning  the  Uses  of  the  Cord  in 
Alpine  Excursions — Shake  Hands! — A  Pupil  of 
Schopenhauer's — At  the  Grands-Mulets — "  Tar- 
tarin,   I    MUST   speak   to    you  "      .  .  .  .       203 

XIII.  The  Catastrophe       .  .  •  .  .        '.  .     215 

XIV.  Epilogue 225 


TARTARIN    OF    TARASCON 


TARTARIN    OF    TARASCON 

EPISODE  THE  FIRST 

IN   TARASCON 

I 

THE    GARDEN    ROUND    THE    GIANT   TREES 

My  first  visit  to  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  has  remained  a  never- 
to-be-forgotten  date  in  my  life;  although  quite  ten  or  a 
dozen  years  ago,  I  remember  it  better  than  yesterday. 

At  that  time  the  intrepid  Tartarin  lived  in  the  third  house 
on  the  left  as  the  town  begins,  on  the  Avignon  road.  A 
pretty  little  villa  in  the  local  style,  with  a  front  garden  and 
a  balcony  behind,  the  walls  glaringly  white  and  the  Venetians 
very  green;  and  always  about  the  doorsteps  a  brood  of  little 
Savoyard  shoeblackguards  playing  hop-scotch,  or  dozing  in 
the  broad  sunshine  with  their  heads  pillowed  on  their  boxes. 

Outwardly  the  dwelling  had  no  remarkable  features,  and 
none  would  ever  believe  it  the  abode  of  a  hero;  but  when 
you  stepped  inside,  ye  gods  and  little  fishes !  what  a  change ! 
From  turret  to  foundation-stone — -I  mean,  from  cellar  to 
garret, — the  whole  building  wore  a  heroic  front;  even  so 
the  garden ! 

0  that  garden  of  Tartarin's!  there's  not  its  match  in 
Europe!  Not  a  native  tree  was  there — not  one  flower  of 
France;  nothing  but  exotic  plants,  gum-trees,  gourds, 
cotton-woods,  cocoa  and  cacao,  mangoes,  bananas,  palms, 
a  baobab,  nopals,  cacti,  Barbary  figs — well,  you  would 
believe  yourself  in  the  very  midst  of  Central  Africa,  ten 
thousand  leagues  away.  It  is  but  fair  to  say  that  these  were 
none  of  full  growth;  indeed,  the  cocoa-palms  were  no  bigger 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


than  beetroot,  and  the  baobab  {arbor  giganiea — "  giant  tree/' 
you  know)  was  easily  enough  circumscribed  by  a  window-pot; 
but,  notwithstanding  this,  it  was  rather  a  sensation  for 
Tarascon,  and  the  townsfolk  who  were  admitted  on  Sundays 
to  the  honour  of  contemplating  Tartarin's  baobab,  went  home 
chokeful  of  admiration. 

Try  to  conceive  my  own  emotion,  which  I  was  bound  to 
feel  on  that  day  of  days  when  I  crossed  through  this  marvel- 
lous garden;  and  that  was  capped  when  I  was  ushered  into 
the  hero's  sanctum. 

His  study,  one  of  the  lions — I  should  say,  lions'  dens — of 
the  town,  was  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  its  glass  door  open- 
ing right  on  to  the  baobab. 

You  are  to  picture  a  capacious  apartment  adorned  with 
firearms  and  steel  blades  from  top  to  bottom:  all  the 
weapons  of  all  the  countries  in  the  wide  world — carbines, 
rifles,  blunderbusses,  Corsican,  Catalan,  and  dagger  knives, 
Malay  kreeses,  revolvers  with  spring-bayonets,  Carib  and 
flint  arrows,  knuckle-dusters,  life-preservers,  Hottentot 
clubs,  Mexican  lassoes, — now,  can  you  expect  me  to  name 
the  rest.?  Upon  the  whole  fell  a  fierce  sunlight,  which  made 
the  blades  and  the  brass  butt-plate  of  the  muskets  gleam  as 
if  all  the  more  to  set  your  flesh  creeping.  Still,  the  beholder 
was  soothed  a  little  by  the  tame  air  of  order  and  tidiness 
reigning  over  the  arsenal.  Everything  was  in  place,  brushed, 
dusted,  labelled,  as  in  a  museum;  from  point  to  point  the 
eye  descried  some  obliging  little  card  reading : — 


Poisoned  Arrows  ! 


Do  not  touch  ! 


Or, 


Loaded  1 


Take  care,  please  I 


If  it  had  not  been  for  these  cautions  I  never  should  have 
dared  venture  in. 


In  Tarascon  3 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  was  an  occasional  table,  on 
which  stood  a  decanter  of  rum,  a  siphon  of  soda-water,  a 
Turkish  tobacco-pouch,  Captain  Cook's  Voyages,  the  Indian 
tales  of  Fenimore  Cooper  and  Gustave  Aimard,  stories  of 
hunting  the  bear,  eagle,  elephant,  and  so  on.  Lastly,  beside 
the  table  sat  a  man  of  between  forty  and  forty-five,  short, 
stout,  thick-set,  ruddy,  with  flaming  eyes  and  a  strong 
stubbly  beard;  he  wore  flannel  tights,  and  was  in  his  shirt 
sleeves;  one  hand  held  a  book,  and  the  other  brandished 
a  very  large  pipe  with  an  iron  bowl-cap.  Whilst  reading 
heaven  only  knows  what  startling  adventure  of  scalp- 
hunters,  he  pouted  out  his  lower  lip  in  a  terrifying  way, 
which  gave  the  honest  phiz  of  the  man  living  placidly  on 
his  means  the  same  impression  of  kindly  ferocity  which 
abounded  throughout  the  house. 

This  man  was  Tartarin  himself — the  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 
the  great,  dreadnought,  incomparable  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


II 


A  GENERAL  GLANCE  BESTOWED  UPON  THE  GOOD  TOWN  OF 
TARASCON,  AND  A  PARTICULAR  ONE  ON  "  THE  CAP- 
POPPERS  " 

At  the  time  I  am  telling  of,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  not 
become  the  present-day  Tartarin,  the  great  one  so  popular 
in  the  whole  South  of  France ;  but  yet  he  was  even  then  the 
cock  of  the  walk  at  Tarascon. 

Let  us  show  whence  arose  this  sovereignty. 

In  the  first  place  you  must  know  that  everybody  is  shoot- 
ing mad  in  these  parts,  from  the  greatest  to  the  least.  The 
chase  is  the  local  craze,  and  so  it  has  ever  been  since  the 
mythological  times  when  the  Tarasque,  as  the  country  dragon 
was  called,  flourished  himself  and  his  tail  in  the  town  marshes, 
and  entertained  shooting  parties  got  up  against  him.  So 
you  see  the  passion  has  lasted  a  goodish  bit. 

It  follows  that,  every  Sunday  morning,  Tarascon  flies  to 

B423    8-15 


4  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

arms,  lets  loose  the  hounds,  and  sallies  forth  with  his  game- 
bag  and  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder,  while  the  hounds 
bay,  whips  crack,  whistles  and  horns  are  blown.  A  splendid 
sight!  But  unfortunately  there's  a  lack  of  game:  there's 
not  a  bird  to  be  seen. 

Stupid  as  the  brute  creation  is,  you  can  readily  understand 
that,  in  time,  it  learnt  some  distrust. 

For  five  leagues  around  about  Tarascon,  forms,  lairs,  and 
burrows  are  empty,  and  nesting-places  abandoned.  You'll 
not  find  a  single  quail  or  blackbird,  one  little  leveret,  or  the 
tiniest  tit.  And  yet  the  pretty  hillocks  are  mightily  tempt- 
ing, sweet  smelling  as  they  are  of  myrtle,  lavender,  and  rose- 
mary; and  the  fine  muscatels  plumped  out  with  sweetness 
even  unto  bursting,  as  they  spread  along  the  banks  of  the 
Rhone,  are  deucedly  tempting  too.  True,  true ;  but  Tarascon 
lies  behind  all  this,  and  Tarascon  is  down  in  the  black  books 
of  the  world  of  fur  and  feather.  The  very  birds  of  passage 
have  ticked  it  off  on  their  guide-books,  and  when  the  wild 
ducks,  coming  down  towards  the  Camargue  in  long  triangles, 
spy  the  town  steeples  from  afar,  the  outermost  flyers  squawk 
out  loudly, — 

"  Look  out !  there's  Tarascon !  give  Tarascon  the  go-by, 
duckies!  " 

And  the  flocks  take  a  swerve. 

In  short,  as  far  as  game  goes,  there's  not  a  specimen  left 
in  the  land  save  one  old  rogue  of  a  hare,  escaped  by  miracle 
from  the  massacres,  who  is  stubbornly  determined  to  stick 
to  it  all  his  life !  He  is  very  well  known  at  Tarascon,  and  a 
name  has  been  given  him.  "  Rapid  "  is  what  they  call  him. 
It  is  known  that  he  has  his  form  on  M.  Bompard's  grounds 
— which,  by  the  way,  has  doubled,  ay,  tripled,  the  value  of 
the  property — but  nobody  has  yet  managed  to  lay  him  low. 
At  present,  only  two  or  three  inveterate  fellows  worry  them- 
selves about  him.  The  rest  have  given  him  up  as  a  bad  job, 
and  old  Rapid  has  long  ago  passed  into  the  legendary  world, 
although  your  Tarasconer  is  very  slightly  superstitious 
naturally,  and  would  eat  cock-robins  on  toast,  or  the  swallow, 
which  is  Our  Lady's  own  bird,  for  that  matter,  if  he  could 
find  any. 

"  But  that  wont  do!  "  you  will  say.  Inasmuch  as  game 
is  so  scarce,  what  can  the  sportsmen  do  every  Sunday  ? 


In  Tarascon  5 

What  can  they  do  ? 

Why,  goodness  gracious !  they  go  out  into  the  real  country 
two  or  three  leagues  from  town.  They  gather  in  knots  of 
five  or  six,  recline  tranquilly  in  the  shade  of  some  well,  old 
wall,  or  olive  tree,  extract  from  their  game-bags  a  good- 
sized  piece  of  boiled  beef,  raw  onions,  a  sausage,  and 
anchovies,  and  commence  a  next  to  endless  snack,  washed 
down  with  one  of  those  nice  Rhone  wines,  which  sets  a  toper 
laughing  and  singing.  After  that,  when  thoroughly  braced 
up,  they  rise,  whistle  the  dogs  to  heel,  set  the  guns  at  half- 
cock,  and  go  "  on  the  shoot " — another  way  of  saying  that 
every  man  plucks  off  his  cap,  shies  it  up  with  all  his  might, 
and  pops  it  on  the  wing  with  No.  5,  6,  or  2  shot,  according  to 
the  bore  of  his  gun. 

The  man  who  lodges  most  shot  in  his  cap  is  hailed  as  king 
of  the  hunt,  and  stalks  back  triumphantly  at  dusk  into 
Tarascon,  with  his  riddled  cap  on  the  end  of  his  gun-barrel, 
amid  any  quantity  of  dog-barks  and  horn-blasts. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  cap-selling  is  a  fine  business  in  the 
town.  There  are  even  some  hatters  who  sell  hunting-caps 
ready  shot,  torn,  and  perforated  for  the  bad  shots;  but  the 
only  buyer  known  is  the  chemist  Bezuquet.  This  is  dis- 
honourable ! 

As  a  marksman  at  caps,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  never  had 
his  match. 

Every  Sunday  morning  out  he  would  march  in  a  new  cap, 
and  back  he  would  strut  every  Sunday  evening  with  a  mere 
thing  of  shreds.  The  loft  of  Baobab  Villa  was  full  of  these 
glorious  trophies.  Hence  all  Tarascon  acknowledged  him  as 
master;  and  as  Tartarin  thoroughly  understood  hunting, 
and  had  read  all  the  handbooks  of  all  possible  kinds  of  venery, 
from  cap-popping  to  Burmese  tiger-shooting,  the  sportsmen 
constituted  him  their  great  cynegetical  judge,  and  took  him 
for  referee  and  arbitrator  in  all  their  differences. 

Between  three  and  four  daily,  at  Costecalde  the  gunsmith's, 
a  stout,  stern  pipe-smoker  might  be  seen  in  a  green  leather- 
covered  arm-chair  in  the  centre  of  the  shop  crammed  with 
cap-poppers,  they  all  on  foot  and  wrangling.  This  was 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  delivering  judgment — Nimrod  plus 
Solomon. 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


III 

"  NAW,  NAW,   NAW !  "      THE    GENERAL    GLANCE    PROTRACTED 
UPON   THE    GOOD    TOWN 

Next  to  the  craze  for  sport,  the  lusty  Tarascon  race  cherishes 
one  for  love  ballad-singing.  There's  no  believing  what  a 
quantity  of  ballads  is  used  up  in  that  little  region.  All 
the  sentimental  stuff  turning  to  sere  and  yellow  leaves 
in  the  oldest  portfolios,  is  to  he  found  in  full  pristine  lustre 
in  Tarascon.  Ay,  the  entire  collection.  Every  family  has  its 
own  pet,  as  is  known  to  the  town. 

For  instance,  it  is  an  established  fact  that  this  is  the 
chemist  Bezuquet's  family's, — 

"  Thou  art  the  fair  star  that  I  adore!  " 
The  gunmaker  Costecalde's  family's, — 

"  Woiild'st  thou  come  to  the  land 
Where  the  log-cabins  rise?  " 

The  official  registrar's  family's, — 

"  If  I  wore  a  coat  of  invisible  green, 
Do  you  think  for  a  moment  I  could  be  seen  ?  " 

And  so  on  for  the  whole  of  Tarascon.  Two  or  three  times 
a  week  there  were  parties  where  they  were  sung.  The 
singularity  was  their  being  always  the  same,  and  that  the 
honest  Tarasconers  had  never  had  an  inclination  to  change 
them  during  the  long,  long  time  they  had  been  harping  on 
them.  They  were  handed  down  from  father  to  son  in  the 
families,  without  anybody  improving  on  them  or  Bowdleris- 
ing  them:  they  were  sacred.  Never  did  it  occur  to  Coste- 
calde's mind  to  sing  the  Bezuquets',  or  the  Bezuquets  to  try 
Costecalde's.  And  yet  you  may  believe  that  they  ought  to 
know  by  heart  what  they  had  been  singing  for  two-score 
years!  But,  nay!  everybody  stuck  to  his  own,  and  they 
were  all  contented. 

In  ballad-singing,  as  in  cap-popping,  Tartarin  was  still  the 


In  Tarascon  7 

foremost.  His  superiority  over  his  fellow-townsmen  con- 
sisted in  his  not  having  any  one  song  of  his  own,  but  in 
knowing  the  lot,  the  whole  lot,  mind  you!  But — there's  a 
but — it  was  the  devil's  own  work  to  get  him  to  sing  them. 

Surfeited  early  in  life  with  his  drawing-room  successes,  our 
hero  preferred  by  far  burying  himself  in  his  hunting  story-books, 
or  spending  the  evening  at  the  club,  to  making  a  personal 
exhibition  of  himself  before  a  Nimes  piano  between  a  pair  of 
home-made  candles.  These  musical  parades  seemed  beneath 
him.  Nevertheless,  at  whiles,  when  there  was  a  harmonic 
party  at  Bezuquet's,  he  would  drop  into  the  chemist's  shop 
as  if  by  chance,  and,  after  a  deal  of  pressure,  consent  to  do 
the  grand  duet  in  Robert  le  Diable  with  old  Madame  Bezuquet. 
Whoso  never  heard  that,  never  heard  anything!  For  my 
part,  even  if  I  lived  a  hundred  years,  I  should  always  see  the 
mighty  Tartarin  solemnly  stepping  up  to  the  piano,  setting 
his  arms  akimbo,  working  up  his  tragic  mien,  and,  beneath 
the  green  reflection  from  the  show-bottles  in  the  window, 
trying  to  give  his  pleasant  visage  the  fierce  and  satanic 
expression  of  Robert  the  Devil.  Hardly  would  be  fall  into 
position  before  the  whole  audience  would  be  shuddering  with 
the  foreboding  that  something  uncommon  was  at  hand. 
After  a  hush,  old  Madame  Bezuquet  would  commence  to 
her  own  accompaniment, — 

"  Robert,  ray  love  is  thine! 

To  thee  I  my  faith  did  plight, 
Thou  seest  my  affright, — 
Mercy  for  thine  ovva  sake. 
And  mercy  for  mine!  " 

In  an  undertone  she  would  add:  "  Now,  then,  Tartarin!  " 
Whereupon  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  with  crooked  arms, 
clenched  fists,  and  quivering  nostrils,  would  roar  three 
times  in  a  formidable  voice,  rolling  like  a  thunder-clap  in 
the  bowels  of  the  instrument, — 

"No!  no!  no!  "  which,  like  the  thorough  southerner  he 
was,  he  pronounced  nasally  as  "  Naw!  naw!  nawl  "  Then 
would  old  Madame  Bezuquet  again  sing, — 

"  Mercy  for  thine  own  sake, 
And  mercy  for  mine!  " 

"  Naw!  naw!  naw!  "  bellowed  Tartarin  at  his  loudest,  and 
there  the  gem  ended. 


8  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

Not  long,  you  see;  but  it  was  so  handsomely  voiced  forth, 
so  clearly  gesticulated,  and  so  diabolical,  that  a  tremor  of 
alarm  ran  through  the  chemist's  shop,  and  the  "  Naw !  naw ! 
naw!  "  would  be  encored  several  times  running. 

Upon  this  Tartarin  would  sponge  his  brow,  smile  on  the 
ladies,  wink  to  the  sterner  sex,  and  withdraw  upon  his 
triumph  to  go  remark  at  the  club  with  a  trifling,  offhand  air, — 

"  I  have  just  come  from  the  Bezuquet's,  where  I  was 
forced  to  sing  'em  the  duet  from  Robert  le  Diable." 

The  cream  of  the  joke  was  that  he  really  believed  it! 


IV 

"they!" 

Chiefly  to  the  possession  of  these  diverse  talents  did  Tartarin 
owe  his  lofty  position  in  the  town  of  Tarascon.  Talking  of 
captivating,  though,  this  deuce  of  a  fellow  knew  how  to 
ensnare  everybody.  Why,  the  army,  at  Tarascon,  was  for 
Tartarin.  The  brave  Major  Bravida — actually  a  retired 
captain  of  the  Military  Clothing  Factory  Department — 
called  him  a  game  fellow;  and  you  may  well  admit  that 
the  major  knew  all  about  game  fellows,  he  had  outfitted  so 
many  of  them. 

So  was  the  legislature  on  Tartarin's  side.  Two  or  three 
times,  in  open  court,  the  old  chief  judge,  Ladev^ze,  had  said, 
in  alluding  to  him, — 

"  He  is  a  character!  " 

Lastly,  the  masses  were  for  Tartarin.  He  had  become 
the  swell  bruiser,  the  aristocratic  pugilist,  the  crack  bully  of 
the  local  Corinthians  for  the  Tarasconers,  from  his  build, 
bearing,  style — that  aspect  of  a  guard's-trumpeter's  charger 
which  fears  no  noise;  his  reputation  as  a  hero  coming  from 
nobody  knew  whence  or  for  what,  and  some  scramblings  for 
coppers  and  a  few  kicks  to  the  little  ragamuffins  baskmg  at 
his  doorway. 

Along  the  waterside,  when  Tartarin  came  home  from 
hunting  on  Sunday  evenings,  with  his  cap  on  the  muzzle  of 


In  Tarascon  9 

his  gun,  and  his  fustian  shooting-jacket  belted  in  tightly, 
the  sturdy  river-lightermen  would  respectfully  bob,  and 
blinking  towards  the  huge  biceps  swelling  out  his  arms, 
would  mutter  among  one  another  in  admiration, — 

"  Now,  there's  a  powerful  chap  if  you  like!  he  has  double 
muscles!  " 

"  Double jiiuscles  !  "  why,  you  never  heard  of  such  a  thing 
outside  of  Talrascon ! 

For  all  this,  with  all  his  numberless  parts,  double-muscles, 
the  popular  favour,  and  the  so  precious  esteem  of  brave 
Major  Bravida,  ex-captain  (in  the  Army  Clothing  Factory), 
Tartarin  was  not  happy:  this  life  in  a  petty  town  weighed 
upon  him  and  suffocated  him. 

The  great  man  of  Tarascon  was  bored  in  Tarascon. 

The^  fact  is,  for  a  heroic  temperament  like  his,  a  wild 
adventurous  spirit  which  dreamt  of  nothing  but  battles, 
races"  across  the  pampas,  mighty  battues,  desert  sands, 
blizzards  and  typhoons,  it  was  not  enough  to  go  out  every 
Sunday  to  pop  at  a  cap,  and  the  rest  of  the  time  to  ladle  out 
casting-votes  at  the  gunmaker's.  Poor  dear  great  man !  If 
this  existence  were  only  prolonged,  there  would  be  sufficient 
tedium  in  it  to  kill  him  with  consumption. 

In  vain  did  he  surround  himself  with  baobabs  and  other 
African  trees,  to  widen  his  horizon,  and  some  little  to  forget 
his  club  and  the  market-place;  in  vain  did  he  pile  weapon 
upon  weapon,  and  Malay  kreese  upon  Malay  kreese ;  in  vain 
did  he  cram  with  romances,  endeavouring  like  the  immortal 
Don  Quixote  to  wrench  himself  by  the  vigour  of  his  fancy 
out  of  the  talons  of  pitiless  reality.  Alas !  all  that  he  did  to 
appease  his  thirst  for  deeds  of  daring  only  helped  to  augment 
it.  The  sight  of  all  the  murderous  implements  kept  him  in 
a  perpetual  stew  of  wrath  and  exaltation.  His  revolvers, 
repeating  rifles,  and  duck-guns  shouted  "Battle!  battle!" 
out  of  their  mouths.  Through  the  twigs  of  his  baobab,  the 
tempest  of  great  voyages  and  journeys  soughed  and  blew 
bad  advice.  To  finish  him  came  Gustave  Aimard,  Mayne 
Reid,  and  Fenimore  Cooper. 

Oh,  how  many  times  did  Tartarin  with  a  howl  spring  up 
on  the  sultry  summer  afternoons,  when  he  was  reading  alone 
amidst  his  blades,  points,  and  edges;  how  many  times  did 
he  dash  down  his  book  and  rush  to  the  wall  to  unhook  a 


I  o  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

deadly  arm !  The  poor  man  forgot  he  was  at  home  in  Taras- 
con, in  his  underclothes,  and  with  a  handkerchief  round  his 
head.  He  would  translate  his  readings  into  action,  and, 
goading  himself  with  his  own  voice,  shout  out  whilst  swing- 
ing a  hattle-axe  or  tomahawk, — 

"  Now,  only  let  'em  come!  " 

"  Them  "  ?  who  were  they? 

Tartarin  did  not  himself  any  too  clearly  understand. 
"  They  "  was  all  that  should  be  attacked  and  fought  with, 
all  that  bites,  claws,  scalps,  whoops,  and  yells — the  Sioux 
Indians  dancing  around  the  war-stake  to  which  the  unfor- 
tunate pale-face  prisoner  is  lashed.  The  grizzly  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  who  wobbles  on  his  hind  legs,  and  licks 
himself  with  a  tongue  full  of  blood.  The  Touareg,  too,  in 
the  desert,  the  Malay  pirate,  the  brigand  of  the  Abruzzi — in 
short,  "  they  "  was  warfare,  travel,  adventure,  and  glory. 

But,  alas !  it  was  to  no  avail  that  the  fearless  Tarasconer 
called  for  and  defied  them ;  never  did  they  come.  Ods- 
boddikins!  what  would  they  have  come  to  do  in  Tarascon? 

Nevertheless,  Tartarin  alwaj'-s  expected  to  run  up  against 
them,  particularly  some  evening  in  going  to  the  club. 


V 

HOW   TARTARIN    WENT    ROUND    TO    HIS    CLUB 

Little,  indeed,  beside  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  arming  himself 
cap-a-pie  to  go  to  his  club  at  nine,  an  hour  after  the  retreat 
had  sounded  on  the  bugle,  was  the  Templar  Knight  prepar- 
ing for  a  sortie  upon  the  infidel,  the  Chinese  tiger  equipping 
himself  for  combat,  or  the  Comanche  warrior  painting  up 
for  going  on  the  war-path. 

"  All  hands  make  ready  for  action!  "  as  the  men-of-war's 
men  say. 

In  his  left  hand  Tartarin  took  a  steel-pointed  knuckle- 
duster; in  the  right  he  carried  a  sword-cane;  in  his  left 
pocket  a  life-preserver;  in  the  right  a  revolver.  On  his 
chest,  betwixt  outer  and  under  garment,  lay  a  Malay  kreese. 


In  Tarascon  1 1 

But  never  any  poisoned  arrows — they  are  weapons  alto- 
gether too  unfair. 

Before  starting,  in  the  silence  and  obscurity  of  his  study, 
he  exercised  himself  for  a  while,  warding  off  imaginary  cuts 
and  thrusts,  lunging  at  the  wall,  and  giving  his  muscles  play; 
then  he  took  his  master-key  and  went  through  the  garden 
leisurely;  without  hurrying,  mark  you.  "  Cool  and  calm — 
British  courage,  that  is  the  true  sort,  gentlemen."  At  the 
garden  end  he  opened  the  heavy  iron  door,  violently  and 
abruptly  so  that  it  should  slam  against  the  outer  wall.  If 
"  they  "  had  been  skulking  behind  it,  you  may  wager  they 
would  have  been  jam..     Unhappily,  they  were  not  there. 

The  way  being  open,  out  Tartarin  would  sally,  quickly 
glancing  to  the  right  and  left,  ere  banging  the  door  to  and 
fastening  it  smartly  with  double-locking.  Then,  on  the  way. 
Not  so  much  as  a  cat  upon  the  Avignon  road — all  the  doors 
closed,  and  no  lights  in  the  casements.  All  was  black, 
except  for  the  parish  lamps,  well  spaced  apart,  blinking  in 
the  river  mist. 

Calm  and  proud,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  marched  on  in 
the  night,  ringing  his  heels  with  regularity,  and  sending 
sparks  out  of  the  paving-stones  with  the  ferule  of  his  stick. 
Whether  in  avenues,  streets,  or  lanes,  he  took  care  to  keep  in 
the  middle  of  the  road — an  excellent  method  of  precaution, 
allowing  one  to  see  danger  coming,  and,  above  all,  to  avoid 
any  droppings  from  windows,  as  happens  after  dark  in 
Tarascon  and  the  Old  Town  of  Edinburgh.  On  seeing  so 
much  prudence  in  Tartarin,  pray  do  not  conclude  that 
Tartarin  had  any  fear — dear,  no!  he  only  was  on  his  guard. 

The  best  proof  that  Tartarin  was  not  scared  is,  that  instead 
of  going  to  the  club  by  the  shortest  cut,  he  went  over  the 
town  by  the  longest  and  darkest  way  round,  through  a  mass 
of  vile,  paltry  alleys,  at  the  mouth  of  which  the  Rhone  could 
be  seen  ominously  gleaming.  The  poor  knight  constantly 
hoped  that,  beyond  the  turn  of  one  of  these  cut-throats' 
haunts,  "  they  "  would  leap  from  the  shadow  and  fall  on  his 
back.  I  warrant  you,  "  they  "  would  have  been  warmly 
received,  though;  but,  alack!  by  reason  of  some  nasty 
meanness  of  destiny,  never  indeed  did  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
enjoy  the  luck  to  meet  any  ugly  customers — not  so  much  as  a 
dog  or  a  drunken  man — nothing  at  all ! 


I  2  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

Still,  there  were  false  alarms  somewhiles.  He  would  catch 
a  sound  of  steps  and  mufifled  voices. 

"  'Ware  hawks!  "  Tartarin  would  mutter,  and  stop  short, 
as  if  taking  root  on  the  spot,  scrutinising  the  gloom,  snifhng 
the  wind,  even  glueing  his  ear  to  the  ground  in  the  orthodox 
Red  Indian  mode.  The  steps  would  draw  nearer,  and  the 
voices  grow  more  distinct,  till  no  more  doubt  was  possible. 
"  They  "  were  coming — in  fact,  here  "  they  "  were! 

Steady,  with  eye  afire  and  heaving  breast,  Tartarin  would 
gather  himself  like  a  jaguar  in  readiness  to  spring  forward 
whilst  uttering  his  war-cry,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  out  of  the 
thick  of  the  murkiness,  he  would  hear  honest  Tarasconian 
voices  quite  tranquilly  hailing  him  with, — 

"  Hullo!  you,  by  Jove!  it's  Tartarin!  Good  night,  old 
fellow !  " 

Maledictions  upon  it!  it  was  the  chemist  Bezuquet,  with 
his  family,  coming  from  singing  their  family  ballad  at 
Costecalde's. 

"Oh,  good  even,  good  even!"  Tartarin  would  growl, 
furious  at  his  blunder,  and  plunging  fiercely  into  the  gloom 
with  his  cane  waved  on  high. 

On  arriving  in  the  street  where  stood  his  club-house,  the 
dauntless  one  would  linger  yet  a  moment,  walking  up  and 
down  before  the  portals  ere  entering.  But,  finally,  weary  of 
awaiting  "  them  "  and  certain  "  they  "  would  not  show 
"  themselves,"  he  would  fling  a  last  glare  of  defiance  into  the 
shades  and  snarl  wrathfully, — 

"  Nothing,  nothing  at  all!  there  never  is  nothing!  " 

Upon  which  double  negation,  which  he  meant  as  a  stronger 
affirmative,  the  worthy  champion  would  walk  in  to  play  his 
game  of  bezique  with  the  major. 


In  Tarascon  i  ^ 


VI 

THE   TWO   TARTARINS 

Answer  me,  you  will  say,  how  the  mischief  is  it  that  Tar- 
tarin  of  Tarascon  never  left  Tarascon  with  all  this  mania 
for  adventure,  need  of  powerful  sensations,  and  folly  about 
travel,  rides,  and  journeys  from  the  Pole  to  the  Equator? 

For  that  is  a  fact:  up  to  the  age  of  five-and-forty,  the 
dreadless  Tarasconian  had  never  once  slept  outside  his  own 
room.  He  had  not  even  taken  that  obligatory  trip  to 
Marseilles  which  every  sound  Provenfal  makes  upon  coming 
of  age.  The  most  of  his  knowledge  included  Beaucaire,  and 
yet  that's  not  far  from  Tarascon,  there  being  merely  the 
bridge  to  go  over.  Unfortunately,  this  rascally  bridge  has 
so  often  been  blown  away  by  the  gales,  it  is  so  long  and  frail, 
and  the  Rhone  has  such  a  width  at  this  spot  that — well, 
faith!  you  understand!  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  preferred 
terra  firma. 

We  are  afraid  we  must  make  a  clean  breast  of  it:  in  our 
hero  there  were  two  very  distinct  characters.  Some  Fatjier 
of  the  Church  has  said:  "  I  feel  there  are  two  men  in  me." 
He  would  have  spoken  truly  in  saying  this  about  Tartarin, 
who  earned  in  his  frame  the  soul  oFTDon  Quixote,  the  same 
chivalric  impulses,  heroic  ideal,  and  crankiness  for  the 
grandtose^and'Tomantic ;  but,  worse  is  the  luck!  he  had  not 
tTie  'body  of  the  celebrated  hidalgo,  that  thin  and  meagre 
a^teg}'  for  a  body,  on  which  material  life  failed  to  take  a 
hold;  one  that  could  get  through  twenty  nights  without  its 
"breast-plate  being  unbuckled  off,  and  forty-eight  hours  on  a 
handful  of  rice.  On^the  contraryj  Tartarin's  body  was  a  stout 
honest  bully  of  a  body,  very  fat,  very  weighty,  most  sensual 
and  tond  of  coddling,  highly  touchy,  full  of  low-class  appetite 
aai^homeiy  requirements — the  short,  pamnchy  body  ori" 
stumps  of  the  immortal  Sancho  Panza. 

Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza  in  the  one  same  man ! 
you  will  readily  comprehend  what  a  cat-and-dog  couple  they 
made      what   strife!    what  clapperclawing!    Oh,   the  fine 


14  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

dialogue  for  Lucian  or  Saint-Evremond  to  write,  between 
the  two  Tartarins — Quixote-Tartarin  and  Sancho-Tartarin ! 
Quixote-Tartarin  firing  up  on  the  stories  of  Gustave  Aimard, 
and  shouting:  "Up  and  at  'em!"  and  Sancho-Tartarin 
thinking  only  of  the  rheumatics  ahead^  and  murmuring: 
"  I  mean  to  stay  at  home." 

THE  DUET 

Quixote-Tartarim.  Sancho-Tartarin. 

(Highly  excited.)  {Quite  calmly.) 

Cover  yourself  with  glory,  Tar-  Tartarin,     cover     yourself     with 
tarin.  flannel. 

(Still  more  excitedly.)  (Still  more  calmly.) 

0  for  the  terrible  douMe-barrelled  O  for  the  thick  knitted  waistcoats! 

rifle!       O  for  bowie-knives,  las-  and    warm    knee-caps!     O    for 

soes,  and  moccasins!  the  welcome  padded  caps  with 

ear-flaps ! 

(Above  all  self-control.)  (Ringing  up  the  maid.) 

A  battle-axe!    fetch  me  a  battle-  Now,  then,  Jeannette,  do  bring  up 

axe!  that  chocolate! 

Whereupon  Jeannette  would  appear  with  an  unusually 
good  cup  of  chocolate,  just  right  in  warmth,  sweetly  smelling, 
and  with  the  play  of  light  on  watered  silk  upon  its  unctuous 
surface,  and  with  succulent  grilled  steak  flavoured  with 
anise-seed,  which  would  set  Sancho-Tartarin  off  on  the 
broad  grin,  and  into  a  laugh  that  drowned  the  shouts  of 
Quixote-Tartarin. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  never  had 
left  Tarascon. 


vi: 


TARTARIN — THE  EUROPEANS  AT  SHANGHAI — COMMERCE — 
THE  TARTARS — CAN  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  BE  AN 
IMPOSTOR? — THE    MIRAGE 

Under   one   conjunction   of   circumstances,   Tartarin   did, 
however,  once  almost  start  out  upon  a  great  voyage. 

The  three  brothers  Garcio-Camus,  natives  of  Tarascon, 
established  in  business  at  Shanghai,  offered  him  the  manager- 
ship of  one  of  their  branches  there.     This  undoubtedly  pre- 


In  Tarascon  15 

sented  the  kind  of  life  he  hankered  after.  Plenty  of  active 
business^  a  whole  army  of  under-strappers  to  order  about, 
and  connections  with  Russia,  Persia,  Turkey  in  Asia — in  short, 
to  be  a  merchant  prince. 

In  Tartarin's  mouth,  the  title  of  Merchant  Prince 
thundered  out  as  something  stunning ! 

The  house  of  Garcio-Camus  had  the  further  advantage  of 
sometimes  being  favoured  with  a  call  from  the  Tartars. 
Then  the  doors  would  be  slammed  shut,  all  the  clerks  flew  to 
arms,  up  ran  the  consular  flag,  and  zizz !  phit !  bang !  out  of 
the  windows  upon  the  Tartars. 

I  need  not  tell  you  with  what  enthusiasm  Quixote-Tartarin 
clutched  this  proposition;  sad  to  say,  Sancho-Tartarin  did 
not  see  it  in  the  same  light,  and,  as  he  was  the  stronger  party, 
it  never  came  to  anything.  But  in  the  town  there  was  much 
talk  about  it.  Would  he  go  or  would  he  not?  "  I'll  lay  he 
will  " — and  "  I'll  wager  he  won't!  "  It  was  the  event  of  the 
week.  In  the  upshot,  Tartarin  did  not  depart,  but  the 
matter  redounded  to  his  credit  none  the  less.  Going  or  not 
going  to  Shanghai  was  all  one  to  Tarascon.  Tartarin's 
journey  was  so  much  talked  about  that  people  got  to  believe 
he  had  done  it  and  returned,  and  at  the  club  in  the  evening 
members  would  actually  ask  for  information  on  life  at 
Shanghai,  the  manners  and  customs  and  climate,  about 
opium,  and  commerce. 

Deeply  read  up,  Tartarin  would  graciously  furnish  the 
particulars  desired,  and,  in  the  end,  the  good  fellow  was  not 
quite  sure  himself  about  not  having  gone  to  Shanghai,  so 
that,  after  relating  for  the  hundredth  time  how  the  Tartars 
came  down  on  the  trading  post,  it  would  most  naturally 
happen  him  to  add, — 

"  Then  I  made  my  men  take  up  arms  and  hoist  the  consular 
flag,  and  zizz!  phit!  bang!  out  of  the  windows  upon  the 
Tartars." 

On  hearing  this,  the  whole  club  would  quiver. 

"  But  according  to  that,  this  Tartarin  of  yours  is  an 
awful  liar." 

"  No,  no,  a  thousand  times  over,  no !  Tartarin  was  no 
liar." 

"  But  the  man  ought  to  know  that  he  has  never  been  to 
Shanghai " 


1 6  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

"  Why,  of  course,  he  knows  that;  but  still  " 

"  But  still  "  you  see — mark  that!  It  is  high  time  for  the 
law  to  be  laid  down  once  for  all  on  the  reputation  as  drawers 
of  the  long  bow  which  Northerners  fling  at  Southerners. 
There  are  no  Baron  Munchausens  in  the  south  of  France, 
neither  at  Nimes  nor  Marseilles,  Toulouse  nor  Tarascon. 
The  Southerner  does  not  deceive  but  is  self-deceived.  He 
does  not  always  tell  the  cold-drawn  truth,  but  he  believes  he 
does.  His  falsehood  is  not  any  such  thing,  but  a  kind  of 
mental  mirage. 

Yes,  purely  mirage !  The  better  to  follow  me,  you  should 
actually  follow  me  into  the  South,  and  you  will  see  I  am 
right.  You  have  only  to  look  at  that  Lucifer's  own  country, 
where  the  sun  transmogrifies  everything,  and  magnifies  it 
beyond  life-size.  The  little  hills  of  Provence  are  no  bigger 
than  the  Butte  Montmartre,  but  they  will  loom  up  like  the 
Rocky  Mountains;  the  Square  House  at  Nimes — a  mere 
model  to  put  on  your  side-board — will  seem  grander  than 
St.  Peter's.  You  will  see — in  brief,  the  only  exaggerator  in 
the  South  is  Old  Sol,  for  he  does  enlarge  everything  he  touches. 
What  was  Sparta  in  its  days  of  splendour?  a  pitiful  hamlet. 
What  was  Athens.-*  at  the  most,  a  second-class  town;  and 
yet  in  history  both  appear  to  us  as  enormous  cities.  This  is 
a  sample  of  what  the  sun  can  do. 

Are  you  going  to  be  astonished  after  this  that  the  same 
sun  falling  upon  Tarascon  should  have  made  of  an  ex- 
captain  in  the  Army  Clothing  Factory,  like  Bravida,  the 
"brave  major";  of  a  sprout  an  Indian  fig-tree;  and  of  a 
man  who  had  missed  going  to  Shanghai  one  who  had  been 
there? 


vni 

MITAINE'S   menagerie — A   LION   FROM   THE   ATLAS   AT  TARAS- 
CON— A   SOLEMN   AND    FEARSOME    CONFRONTATION 

Exhibiting  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  as  we  are,  in  his  private 
life,  before  Fame  kissed  his  brow  and  garlanded  him  with 
her  well-worn  laurel  wreath,  and  having  narrated  his  heroic 
existence  in  a  modest  state,  his  delights  and  sorrows,  his 


'  In  Tarascon  17 

dreams  and  his  hopes,  let  us  hurriedly  skip  to  the  grandest 
pages  of  his  story,  and  to  the  singular  event  which  was  to  give 
the  first  flight  to  his  incomparable  career. 

It  happened  one  evening  at  Costecalde  the  gunmaker's, 
where  Tartarin  was  engaged  in  showing  several  sportsmen 
the  working  of  the  needle-gun,  then  in  its  first  novelty.  The 
door  suddenly  flew  open,  and  in  rushed  a  bewildered  cap- 
popper,  howling  "  A  lion,  a  lion!  "  General  was  the  alarm, 
stupor,  uproar  and  tumult.  Tartarin  prepared  to  resist 
cavalry  with  the  bayonet,  whilst  Costecalde  ran  to  shut  the 
door.  The  sportsman  was  surrounded  and  pressed  and 
questioned,  and  here  follows  what  he  told  them:  Mitaine's 
Menagerie,  returning  from  Beaucaire  Fair,  had  consented 
to  stay  over  a  few  days  at  Tarascon,  and  was  just  unpacking, 
to  set  up  the  show  on  the  Castle-green,  with  a  lot  of  boas, 
seals,  crocodiles,  and  a  magnificent  lion  from  the  Atlas 
Mountains. 

An  African  lion  in  Tarascon  ? 

Never  in  the  memory  of  living  man  had  the  like  been  seen. 
Hence  our  dauntless  cap-poppers  looked  at  one  another  how 
proudly  1  What  a  beaming  on  their  sunburned  visages ! 
and  in  every  nook  of  Costecalde's  shop  what  hearty  con- 
gratulatory grips  of  the  hand  were  silently  exchanged !  The 
sensation  was  so  great  and  unforeseen  that  nobody  could 
find  a  word  to  say — not  even  Tartarin. 

Blanched  and  agitated,  with  the  needle-gun  still  in  his  fist, 
he  brooded,  erect  before  the  counter.  A  lion  from  the  Atlas 
Range  at  pistol  range  from  him,  a  couple  of  strides  off.''  a 
lion,  mind  you — the  beast  heroic  and  ferocious  above  all 
others,  the  King  of  the  Brute  Creation,  the  crowning  game 
of  his  fancies,  something  like  the  leading  actor  in  the  ideal 
company  which  played  such  splendid  tragedies  in  his  mind's 
eye.  A  lion,  heaven  be  thanked!  and  from  the  Atlas,  to 
boot !     It  was  more  than  the  great  Tartarin  could  bear. 

Suddenly  a  flush  of  blood  flew  into  his  face.  His  eyes 
flashed.  With  one  convulsive  movement  he  shouldered  the 
needle-gun,  and  turning  towards  the  brave  Major  Bravida 
(formerly  captain — in  the  Army  Clothing  Department,  please 
to  remember),  he  thundered  to  him, — 

"  Let's  go  and  have  a  look  at  him,  major." 

"  Here,  here,  I  say !  that's  my  gun — my  needle-gun  you 


I  8  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

are  carrying  off,"  timidly  ventured  the  wary  Costecalde; 
but  Tartarin  had  already  got  round  the  corner,  with  all  the 
cap-poppers  proudly  lock-stepping  behind  him. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  menagerie,  they  found  a  goodly 
number  of  people  there.  Tarascon,  heroic  but  too  long 
deprived  of  sensational  shows,  had  rushed  upon  Mitaine's 
portable  theatre,  and  had  taken  it  by  storm.  Hence  the 
voluminous  Madame  Mitaine  was  highly  contented.  In  an 
Arab  costume,  her  arms  bare  to  the  elbow,  iron  anklets  on,  a 
whip  in  one  hand  and  a  plucked  though  live  pullet  in  the 
other,  the  noted  lady  was  doing  the  honours  of  the  booth  to 
the  Tarasconians ;  and,  as  she  also  had  "double  muscles," 
her  success  was  almost  as  great  as  her  animals'. 

The  entrance  of  Tartarin  with  the  gun  on  his  shoulder  was 
a  damper. 

All  our  good  Tarasconians,  who  had  been  quite  tranquilly 
strolling  before  the  cages,  unarmed  and  with  no  distrust, 
without  even  any  idea  of  danger,  felt  momentary  appre- 
hension, naturally  enough,  on  beholding  their  mighty  Tar- 
tarin rush  into  the  enclosure  with  his  formidable  engine  of 
war.  There  must  be  something  to  fear  when  a  hero  like  he 
was,  came  weaponed ;  so,  in  a  twinkling,  all  the  space  along 
the  cage  fronts  was  cleared.  The  youngsters  burst  out 
squalling  for  fear,  and  the  women  looked  round  for  the 
nearest  way  out.  The  chemist  Bezuquet  made  off  altogether, 
alleging  that  he  was  going  home  for  his  gun. 

Gradually,  however,  Tartarin's  bearing  restored  courage. 
With  head  erect,  the  intrepid  Tarasconian  slowly  and  calmly 
made  the  circuit  of  the  booth,  passing  the  seal's  tank  without 
stopping,  glancing  disdainfully  on  the  long  box  filled  with 
sawdust  in  which  the  boa  would  digest  its  raw  fowl,  and 
going  to  take  his  stand  before  the  lion's  cage. 

A  terrible  and  solemn  confrontation,  this ! 

The  lion  of  Tarascon  and  the  lion  of  Africa  face  to  face ! 

On  the  one  part,  Tartarin  erect,  with  his  hamstrings  in 
tension,  and  his  arms  folded  on  his  gun  barrel;  on  the  other, 
the  lion,  a  gigantic  specimen,  humped  up  in  the  straw,  with 
blinking  orbs  and  brutish  mien,  resting  his  huge  muzzle  and 
tawny  full-bottomed  wig  on  his  forepaws.  Both  calm  in 
their  gaze. 

Singular  thing!    whether  the  needle-gun  had  given  him 


In  Tarascon  19 

"  the  needle,"  if  the  popular  idiom  is  admissible,  or  that  he 
scented  an  enemy  of  his  race,  the  lion,  who  had  hitherto 
regarded  the  Tarasconians  with  sovereign  scorn,  and  yawned 
in  their  faces,  was  all  at  once  affected  by  ire.  xA.t  first  he 
sniffed;  then  he  growled  hollowly,  stretching  out  his  claws; 
rising,  he  tossed  his  head,  shook  his  mane,  opened  a  capacious 
maw,  and  belched  a  deafening  roar  at  Tartarin. 

A  yell  of  fright  responded,  as  Tarascon  precipitated  itself 
madly  towards  the  exit,  women  and  children,  lightermen, 
cap-poppers,  even  the  brave  Major  Bravida  himself.  But, 
alone,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  not  budged.  There  he 
stood,  firm  and  resolute,  before  the  cage,  lightnings  in  his 
eyes,  and  on  his  Hp  that  gruesome  grin  with  which  all  the 
town  was  familiar.  In  a  moment's  time,  when  all  the  cap- 
poppers,  some  little  fortified  by  his  bearing  and  the  strength 
of  the  bars,  re-approached  their  leader,  they  heard  him 
mutter,  as  he  stared  Leo  out  of  countenance, — 

"  Now,  this  is  something  like  a  hunt!  " 

All  the  rest  of  that  day,  never  a  word  further  could  they 
draw  from  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


SINGULAR    EFFECTS    OF    MENTAL   MIRAGE 

Confining  his  remarks  to  the  sentence  last  recorded,  Tar- 
tarin had  unfortunately  still  said  overmuch. 

On  the  morrow,  there  was  nothing  talked  about  through 
town  but  the  near-at-hand  departure  of  Tartarin  for  Algeria 
and  lion-hunting.  You  are  all  witness,  dear  readers,  that  the 
honest  fellow  had  not  breathed  a  word  on  that  head;  but, 
you  know,  the  mirage  has  its  usual  effect.  In  brief,  all 
Tarascon  spoke  of  nothing  but  the  departure. 

On  the  Old  Walk,  at  the  club,  in  Costecalde's,  friends 
accosted  one  another  with  a  startled  aspect, — 

"  And  furthermore,  you  know  the  news,  at  least?  " 

"And  furthermore,  rather?  Tartarin's  setting  out,  at 
least?" 

C4I3 


2  0  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

For  at  Tarascon  all  phrases  begin  with  "  and  furthermore," 
and  conclude  with  "  at  least/'  with  a  strong  local  accent. 
Hence,  on  this  occasion  more  than  upon  others,  these 
peculiarities  rang  out  till  the  windows  shivered. 

The  most  surprised  of  men  in  the  town  on  hearing  that 
Tartarin  was  going  away  to  Africa,  was  Tartarin  himself. 
But  only  see  what  vanity  is !  Instead  of  plumply  answering 
that  he  was  not  going  at  all,  and  had  not  even  had  the 
intention,  poor  Tartarin,  on  the  first  of  them  mentioning  the 
journey  to  him,  observed  with  a  neat  little  evasive  air,  "  Aha ! 
maybe  I  shall — but  I  do  not  say  as  much."  The  second 
time,  a  trifle  more  familiarised  with  the  idea,  he  replied, 
"  Very  likely;  "  and  the  third  time,  "  It's  certain." 

Finally,  in  the  evening,  at  Costecalde's  and  the  club, 
carried  away  by  the  egg-nogg,  cheers,  and  illumination; 
intoxicated  by  the  impression  that  bare  announcement  of 
his  departure  had  made  on  the  town,  the  hapless  fellow 
formally  declared  that  he  was  sick  of  banging  away  at  caps, 
and  that  he  would  shortly  be  on  the  trail  of  the  great  lions 
of  the  Atlas.  A  deafening  hurrah  greeted  this  assertion. 
Whereupon  more  egg-nogg,  bravoes,  hand-shaking,  slappings 
of  the  shoulder,  and  a  torchlight  serenade  up  to  midnight 
before  Baobab  Villa. 

It  was  Sancho-Tartarin  who  was  anything  but  delighted. 
This  idea  of  travel  in  Africa  and  lion-hunting  made  him 
shudder  beforehand;  and  when  the  house  was  re-entered, 
and  whilst  the  complimentary  concert  was  sounding  under 
the  windows,  he  had  a  dreadful  row  with  Quixote-Tartarin, 
calling  him  a  cracked  head,  a  visionary,  imprudent,  and  thrice 
an  idiot,  and  detailing  by  the  card  all  the  catastrophes  await- 
ing him  on  such  an  expedition — shipwreck,  rheumatism, 
yellow  fever,  dysentery,  the  black  plague,  elephantiasis,  and 
the  rest  of  them. 

In  vain  did  Quixote-Tartarin  vow  that  he  had  not 
committed  any  imprudence — that  he  would  wrap  himself 
up  well,  and  take  even  superfluous  necessaries  with  him. 
Sancho-Tartarin  would  listen  to  nothing.  The  poor  craven 
saw  himself  already  torn  to  tatters  by  the  lions,  or  engulfed 
in  the  desert  sands  like  his  late  royal  highness  Cambyses,  and 
the  other  Tartarin  only  managed  to  appease  him  a  little  by 
explaining  that  the  start  was  not  immediate,  as  nothing 
pressed. 


In  Tarascon  2  i 

It  is  clear  enough,  indeed,  that  none  embark  on  such  an 
enterprise  without  some  preparations.  A  man  is  bound  to 
know  whither  he  goes,  hang  it  all !  and  not  fly  off  like  a  bird. 
Before  anything  else,  the  Tarasconian  wanted  to  peruse  the 
accounts  of  great  African  tourists,  the  narrations  of  ]\Iungo 
Park,  Du  Chaillu,  Dr.  Livingstone,  Stanley,  and  so  on. 

In  them,  he  learnt  that  these  daring  explorers,  before 
donning  their  sandals  for  distant  excursions,  hardened  them- 
selves well  beforehand  to  support  hunger  and  thirst,  forced 
marches,  and  all  kinds  of  privation.  Tartarin  meant  to  act 
like  they  did,  and  from  that  day  forward  he  lived  upon  water 
broth  alone.  The  water  broth  of  Tarascon  is  a  few  slices  of 
bread  drowned  in  hot  water,  with  a  clove  of  garlic,  a  pinch 
of  thyme,  and  a  sprig  of  laurel.  Strict  diet,  at  which  you 
may  believe  poor  Sancho  made  a  wry  face. 

To  the  regimen  of  water  broth  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  joined 
other  wise  practices.  To  break  himself  into  the  habit  of  long 
marches,  he  constrained  himself  to  go  round  the  town  seven 
or  eight  times  consecutively  every  morning,  either  at  the 
fast  walk  or  run,  his  elbows  well  set  against  his  body,  and  a 
couple  of  white  pebbles  in  the  mouth,  according  to  the 
antique  usage. 

To  get  inured  to  fog,  dew,  and  night  coolness,  he  would  go 
down  into  his  garden  every  dusk,  and  stop  out  there  till  ten 
or  eleven,  alone  with  his  gun,  on  the  lookout,  behind  the 
baobab. 

Finally,  so  long  as  Mitaine's  wild  beast  show  tarried  in 
Tarascon,  the  cap-poppers  who  were  belated  at  Costecalde's 
might  spy  in  the  shadow  of  the  booth,  as  they  crossed  the 
Castle-green,  a  mysterious  figure  stalking  up  and  down.  It 
was  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  habituating  himself  to  hear  with- 
out emotion  the  roarings  of  the  lion  in  the  sombre  night. 


22  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


BEFORE  THE   START 

Pending  Tartarin's  delay  of  the  event  by  all  sorts  of  heroic 
means,  all  Tarascon  kept  an  eye  upon  him,  and  nothing 
else  was  busied  about.  Cap-popping  was  winged,  and  ballad- 
singing  dead .  The  piano  in  Bezuquet's  shop  mouldered  away 
under  a  green  fungus,  and  the  Spanish  flies  dried  upon  it, 
belly  up.  Tartarin's  expedition  had  put  a  stopper  on 
everything. 

Ah,  you  ought  to  have  seen  his  success  in  the  parlours. 
He  was  snatched  away  by  one  from  another,  fought  for, 
loaned  and  borrowed,  ay,  stolen.  There  was  no  greater 
honour  for  the  ladies  than  to  go  to  Mitaine's  Menagerie  on 
Tartarin's  arm,  and  have  it  explained  before  the  lion's  den 
how  such  large  game  are  hunted,  where  they  should  be  aimed 
at,  at  how  many  paces  off,  if  the  accidents  were  numerous, 
and  the  like  of  that. 

Tartarin  furnished  all  the  elucidation  desired.  He  had 
read  The  lAje  of  Jules  Gerard,  the  Lion-Slayer,  and  had 
lion-hunting  at  his  finger  ends,  as  if  he  had  been  through  it 
himself.  Hence  he  orated  upon  these  matters  with  great 
eloquence. 

But  where  he  shone  the  brightest  was  at  dinner  at  Chief 
Judge  Ladeveze's,  or  brave  Major  Bravida's  (the  former 
captain  in  the  Army  Clothing  Factory,  you  will  keep  in 
mind),  when  coffee  came  in,  and  all  the  chairs  were  brought 
up  closer  together,  whilst  they  chatted  of  his  future  hunts. 

Thereupon,  his  elbow  on  the  cloth,  his  nose  over  his  Mocha, 
our  hero  would  discourse  in  a  feeling  tone  of  all  the  dangers 
awaiting  him  thereaway.  He  spoke  of  the  long  moonless 
night  lyings-in-wait,  the  pestilential  fens,  the  rivers  en- 
venomed by  leaves  of  poison-plants,  the  deep  snow-drifts, 
the  scorching  suns,  the  scorpions,  and  rains  of  grasshoppers; 
he  also  descanted  on  the  peculiarities  of  the  great  lions  of  the 
Atlas,  their  way  of  fighting,  their  phenomenal  vigour,  and 
their  ferocity  in  the  mating  season. 


In  Tarascon  23 

Heating  with  his  own  recital,  he  would  rise  from  table, 
bounding  to  the  middle  of  the  dining-room,  imitating  the 
roar  of  a  lion  and  the  going  off  of  a  rifle :  crack !  bang !  the 
zizz  of  the  explosive  bullet — gesticulating  and  roaring  about 
till  he  had  overset  the  chairs. 

Everybody  turned  pale  around  the  board:  the  gentlemen 
looking  at  one  another  and  wagging  their  heads,  the  ladies 
shutting  their  eyes  with  pretty  screams  of  fright,  the  elderly 
men  combatively  brandishing  their  canes;  and,  in  the  side 
apartments,  the  little  boys,  who  had  been  put  to  bed  betimes, 
were  greatly  startled  by  the  sudden  outcries  and  imitation 
gun-fire,  and  screamed  for  lights. 

Meanwhile.  Tartarin  did  not  start. 


XI 

"  let's  have  it  out  with  swords,  gentlemen,  not  pins!  " 

A  DELICATE  question:  whether  Tartarin  really  had  any 
intention  of  going,  and  one  which  the  historian  of  Tartarin 
would  be  highly  embarrassed  to  answer.  In  plain  words, 
Mitaine's  Menagerie  had  left  Tarascon  over  three  months, 
and  still  the  lion-slayer  had  not  started.  After  all,  blinded 
by  a  new  mirage,  our  candid  hero  may  have  imagined  in 
perfectly  good  faith  that  he  had  gone  to  Algeria.  On  the 
strength  of  having  related  his  future  hunts,  he  may  have 
believed  he  had  performed  them  as  sincerely  as  he  fancied  he 
had  hoisted  the  consular  flag  and  fired  on  the  Tartars,  zizz, 
phit,  bang!  at  Shanghai. 

Unfortunately,  granting  Tartarin  was  this  time  again 
dupe  of  an  illusion,  his  fellow-townsfolk  were  not.  When, 
after  the  quarter's  expectation,  they  perceived  that  the 
hunter  had  not  packed  even  a  coflar  box,  they  commenced 
murmuring. 

"  This  is  going  to  turn  out  like  the  Shanghai  expedition," 
remarked  Costecalde,  smiling. 

The  gunsmith's  comment  was  welcomed  all  over  town,  for 
nobody  believed  any  longer  in  their  late  idol.     The  simpletons 


24  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

and  poltroons — all  the  fellows  of  Bezuquet's  stamp^  whom  a 
flea  would  put  to  flight,  and  who  could  not  fire  a  shot  without 
closing  their  eyes — were  conspicuously  pitiless.  In  the  club- 
rooms  or  on  the  esplanade,  they  accosted  poor  Tartarin  with 
bantering  mien, — 

"  And  furthermore,  when  is  that  trip  coming  off?  " 

In  Costecalde's  shop,  his  opinions  gained  no  credence,  for 
the  cap-poppers  renounced  their  chief ! 

Next,  epigrams  dropped  into  the  affair.  Chief  Judge 
Ladeveze,  who  willingly  paid  court  in  his  leisure  hours  to  the 
native  Muse,  composed  in  local  dialect  a  song  which  won 
much  success.  It  told  of  a  sportsman  called  "  Master 
Gervais,"  whose  dreaded  rifle  was  bound  to  exterminate  all 
the  lions  in  Africa  to  the  very  last.  Unluckily,  this  terrible 
gun  was  of  a  strange  kind:  "  though  loaded  daily,  it  never 
went  off." 

"  It  never  went  off  '" — you  will  catch  the  drift. 

In  less  than  no  time,  this  ditty  became  popular;  and  when 
Tartarin  came  by,  the  longshoremen  and  the  little  shoe- 
blacks before  his  door  sang  in  chorus, — 

"  Muster  Jarvey's  roifle 

Alius  gittin'  chaarged; 
Muster  Jarvey's  roifle 

'11  hev  to  git  enlaarged; 
Muster  Jarvey's  roifle's 

Loaded  oft — don't  scoff; 
Muster  Jarvey's  roifle 

Nivver  do  go  off !  " 

But  it  was  shouted  out  from  a  safe  distance,  on  account 
of  the  double  muscles. 

Oh,  the  fragility  of  Tarascon's  fads ! 

The  great  object  himself  feigned  to  see  and  hear  nothing; 
but,  under  the  surface,  this  sullen  and  venomous  petty  war- 
fare much  afflicted  him.  He  felt  aware  that  Tarascon  was 
slipping  out  of  his  grip,  and  that  popular  favour  was  going  to 
others;  and  this  made  him  suffer  horribly. 

Ah,  the  huge  bowl  of  popularity !  it's  all  very  well  to  have 
a  seat  in  front  of  it,  but  what  a  scalding  you  catch  when  it  is 
overturned ! 

Notwithstanding  his  pain,  Tartarin  smiled  and  peacefully 
jogged  on  in  the  same  life  as  if  nothing  untoward  had 
happened.     Still,  the  mask  of  jovial  heedlessness  glued  by 


In  Tarascon  25 

pride  on  his  face  would  sometimes  be  suddenly  detached. 
Then,  in  lieu  of  laughter,  one  saw  grief  and  indignation. 
Thus  it  was  that  one  morning,  when  the  little  blackguards 
yelped  "  Muster  Jarvey's  Roifle  "  beneath  his  window,  the 
wretches'  voices  rose  even  into  the  poor  great  man's  room, 
where  he  was  shaving  before  the  glass.  (Tartarin  wore  a 
full  beard,  but  as  it  grew  very  thick,  he  was  obliged  to  keep 
it  trimmed  orderly.) 

All  at  once  the  window  was  violently  opened,  and  Tar- 
tarin appeared  in  shirt-sleeves  and  nightcap,  smothered  in 
lather,  flourishing  his  razor  and  shaving-brush,  and  roaring 
with  a  formidable  voice, — 

"  Let's  have  it  out  with  swords,  gentlemen,  not  pins !  " 
Fine  words,  worthy  of  history's  record,  with  only  the 
blemish  that  they  were  addressed  to  little  scamps  not  higher 
than  their  boot-boxes,  and  who  were  quite  incapable  of 
holding  a  smallsword. 


XII 

A   MEMORABLE   DIALOGUE   IN   THE   LITTLE    BAOBAB   VILLA 

Amid  the  general  falling  off,  the  army  alone  stuck  out  firmly 
for  Tartarin.  Brave  Major  Bravida  (the  former  captain 
in  the  Army  Clothing  Department)  continued  to  show  him 
the  same  esteem  as  ever.  "He's  game!"  he  persisted  in 
saying — an  assertion,  I  beg  to  believe,  fully  worth  the 
chemist  Bezuquet's.  Not  once  did  the  brave  officer  let 
out  any  allusion  to  the  trip  to  Africa;  but  when  the  public 
clamour  grew  too  loud,  he  determined  to  have  his  say. 

One  evening  the  luckless  Tartarin  was  in  his  study,  in 
a  brown  study  himself,  when  he  saw  the  major  stride 
in,  stern,  wearing  black  gloves,  buttoned  up  to  his  ears. 

"  Tartarin,"  said  the  ex-captain  authoritatively,  "  Tar- 
tarin, you'll  have  to  go !  " 

And  there  he  dwelt,  erect  in  the  doorway  frame,  grand 
and  rigid  as  embodied  Duty.  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  com- 
prehended all  the  sense  in  "  Tartarin,  you'll  have  to  go!  " 

Very  pale,  he  rose  and  looked  around  with  a  softened  eye 


26  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

upon  the  cosy  snuggery,  tightly  closed  in,  full  of  warmth  and 
tender  light — upon  the  commodious  easy  chair,  his  books, 
the  carpet,  the  white  blinds  of  the  windows,  beyond  which 
trembled  the  slenger  twigs  of  the  little  garden.  Then,  ad- 
vancing towards  the  brave  officer,  he  took  his  hand,  grasped 
it  energetically,  and  said  in  a  voice  somewhat  tearful,  but 
stoical  for  all  that, — 

"  I  am  going,  Bravida." 

And  go  he  did,  as  he  said  he  would.  Not  straight  off 
though,  for  it  takes  time  to  get  the  paraphernalia  together. 

To  begin  with,  he  ordered  of  Bompard  two  large  boxes 
bound  with  brass,  and  an  inscription  to  be  on  them, — 


TARTARIN,  OF  TARASCON. 


FIREARMS.  &-C. 


The  binding  in  brass  and  the  lettering  took  much  time. 
He  also  ordered  at  Tastavin's  a  showy  album,  in  which  to 
keep  a  diary  and  his  impressions  of  travel;  for  a  man  cannot 
help  having  an  idea  or  two  strike  him  even  when  he  is  busy 
lion-hunting. 

Next  he  had  over  from  Marseilles  a  down-right  cargo  of 
tinned  eatables,  pemmican  compressed  in  cakes  for  making 
soup,  a  new  pattern  shelter-tent,  opening  out  and  packing 
up  in  a  minute,  sea-boots,  a  couple  of  umbrellas,  a  water- 
proof coat,  and  blue  spectacles  to  ward  off  ophthalmia.  To 
conclude,  Bezuquet  the  chemist  made  him  up  a  miniature 
portable  medicine  chest  stuffed  with  diachylon  plaister,  arnica 
camphor,  and  medicated  vinegar. 

Poor  Tartarin!  he  did  not  take  these  safeguards  on  his 
own  behalf;  but  he  hoped,  by  dint  of  precaution  and  delicate 
attentions,  to  allay  Sancho-Tartarin's  fury,  who,  since  the 
start  was  fixed,  never  left  off  raging  day  or  night. 


In  Tarascon  27 


xiir 

THE   DEPARTURE 

At  last  arrived  the  great  and  solemn  day.  From  dawn 
all  Tarascon  had  been  on  foot,  encumbering  the  Avignon 
road  and  the  approaches  to  Baobab  Villa.  People  were  up 
at  the  windows,  on  the  roofs,  and  in  the  trees;  the  Rhone 
bargees,  porters,  dredgers,  shoe-blacks,  gentry,  tradesfolk, 
warpers  and  weavers,  tafieta-workers,  the  club  members,  in 
short  the  whole  town;  moreover,  people  from  Beaucaire  had 
come  over  the  bridge,  market-gardeners  from  the  environs, 
carters  in  their  huge  carts  with  ample  tilts,  vine-dressers  upon 
handsome  mules,  tricked  out  with  ribbons,  streamers,  bells, 
rosettes,  and  jingles,  and  even,  here  and  there,  a  few  pretty 
maids  from  Aries,  come  on  the  pillion  behind  their  sweet- 
hearts, with  bonny  blue  ribbons  round  the  head,  upon  little 
iron-grey  Camargue  horses. 

All  this  swarm  squeezed  and  jostled  before  our  good  Tar- 
tarin's  door,  who  was  going  to  slaughter  lions  in  the  land  of 
the  Turks. 

For  Tarascon,  Algeria,  Africa,  Greece,  Persia,  Turkey,  and 
Mesopotamia,  all  form  one  great  hazy  country,  almost  a 
myth,  called  the  land  of  the  Turks.  They  say  "  Tur's,''  but 
that's  a  linguistic  digression. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  throng,  the  cap-poppers  bustled  to 
and  fro,  proud  of  their  captain's  triumph,  leaving  glorious 
wakes  where  they  had  passed. 

In  front  of  the  Indian  fig-tree  house  were  two  large  trucks. 
From  time  to  time  the  door  would  open,  and  allow  several 
persons  to  be  spied,  gravely  lounging  about  the  little  garden. 
At  every  new  box  the  throng  started  and  trembled.  The 
articles  were  named  in  a  loud  voice, — 

"That  there's  the  shelter-tent;  these  the  potted  meats; 
that's  the  physic-chest;  these  the  gun-cases," — the  cap- 
poppers  giving  explanations. 

All  of  a  sudden,  about  ten  o'clock,  there  was  a  great  stir 
in  the  multitude,  for  the  garden  gate  banged  open. 


2  8  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

"  Here  he  is !  here  he  is !  "  they  shouted. 

It  was  he  indeed.  When  he  appeared  upon  the  threshold, 
two  outcries  of  stupefaction  burst  from  the  assemblage, — 

"  He's  a  Turk !  "     "  He's  got  on  spectacles !  " 

In  truth,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  deemed  it  his  duty,  on 
going  to  Algeria,  to  don  the  Algerian  costume.  Full  white 
linen  trousers,  small  tight  vest  with  metal  buttons,  a  red 
sash  two  feet  wide  around  the  waist,  the  neck  bare  and  the 
forehead  shaven,  and  a  vast  red  fez,  or  chechia,  on  his  head, 
with  something  like  a  long  blue  tassel  thereto.  Together 
with  this,  two  heavy  guns,  one  on  each  shoulder,  a  broad 
hunting-knife  in  the  girdle,  a  bandolier  across  the  breast,  a 
revolver  on  the  hip,  swinging  in  its  patent  leather  case — 
that  is  all.  No,  I  cry  your  pardon,  I  was  forgetting  the 
spectacles — a  pantomimically  large  pair  of  azure  barnacles, 
which  came  in  patly  to  temper  what  was  rather  too  fierce  in 
the  bearing  of  our  hero. 

"  Long  life  to  Tartarin!  hip,  hip,  hurrah  for  Tartarin!  " 
roared  the  populace. 

The  great  man  smiled,  but  did  not  salute,  on  account  of 
the  firearms  hindering  him.  Moreover,  he  knew  now  on 
what  popular  favour  depends;  it  may  even  be  that  in  the 
depths  of  his  soul  he  cursed  his  terrible  fellow-townsfolk,  who 
obliged  him  to  go  away  and  leave  his  pretty  little  pleasure- 
house  with  whitened  walls  and  green  Venetians.  But  there 
was  no  show  of  this. 

Calm  and  proud,  although  a  little  pallid,  he  stepped  out  on 
the  footway,  glanced  at  the  hand-carts,  and,  seeing  all  was 
right,  lustily  took  the  road  to  the  railway-station,  without 
even  once  looking  back  towards  Baobab  Villa.  Behind  him 
marched  the  brave  Major  Bravida,  Ladev^ze  the  Chief 
Judge,  Costecalde  the  gunsmith  next,  and  then  all  the  sports- 
men who  pop  at  caps,  preceding  the  hand-carts  and  the  rag, 
tag,  and  bobtail. 

Before  the  station  the  station-master  awaited  them,  an 
old  African  veteran  of  1830,  who  shook  Tartarin's  hand 
many  times  with  fervency. 

The  Paris-to-Marseilles  express  was  not  yet  in,  so  Tar- 
tarin and  his  staff  went  into  the  waiting-rooms.  To  prevent 
the  place  being  overrun,  the  station-master  ordered  the 
gates  to  be  closed. 


In  Tarascon  29 

During  a  quarter  of  an  hour^  Tartarin  promenaded  up  and 
down  in  the  rooms  in  the  midst  of  his  brother  marksmen^ 
speaking  to  them  of  his  journey  and  his  hunting,  and  promis- 
ing to  send  them  skins;  they  put  their  names  down  in  his 
memorandum-book  for  a  honskin  apiece,  as  waltzers  book 
for  a  dance. 

Gentle  and  placid  as  Socrates  on  the  point  of  quaffing  the 
hemlock,  the  intrepid  Tarasconian  had  a  word  and  a  smile 
for  each.  He  spoke  simply,  with  an  affable  mien;  it  looked 
as  if,  before  departing,  he  meant  to  leave  behind  him  a  wake 
of  charms,  regrets,  and  pleasant  memories.  On  hearing 
their  leader  speak  in  this  way,  all  the  sportsmen  felt  tears 
well  up,  and  some  were  stung  with  remorse,  to  wit.  Chief 
Judge  Ladeveze  and  the  chemist  Bezuquet.  The  railway 
employes  blubbered  in  the  corners,  whilst  the  outer  public 
squinted  through  the  bars  and  bellowed:  "Long  live 
Tartarin !  " 

At  length  the  bell  rang.  A  dull  rumble  was  heard,  and  a 
piercing  whistle  shook  the  vault. 

"  The  Marseilles  express,  gen'lemen!  " 
"  Good-bye,  Tartarin !  Good  luck,  old  fellow !  " 
"Good-bye  to  you  all!"  murmured  the  great  man,  as, 
with  his  arms  around  the  brave  Major  Bravida,  he  embraced 
his  dear  native  place  collectively  in  him.  Then  he  leaped 
out  upon  the  platform,  and  clambered  into  a  carriage  full 
of  Parisian  ladies,  who  were  ready  to  die  with  fright  at  sight 
of  this  stranger  with  so  many  pistols  and  rifles. 


30  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


XIV 

THE  PORT  OF  MARSEILLES — "  ALL  ABOARD,  ALL  ABOARD!" 

Upon  the  ist  of  December  i8 — ,  in  clear,  brilliant,  splendid 
weather,  under  a  south  winter  sun,  the  startled  inhabitants 
of  Marseilles  beheld  a  Turk  come  down  the'  Canebi^re,  or 
their  Regent  Street.  A  Turk,  a  regular  Turk — never  had 
such  a  one  been  seen;  and  yet,  Heaven  knows,  there  is  no 
lack  of  Turks  at  Marseilles. 

The  Turk  in  question — have  I  any  necessity ^of  telling  you 
it  was  the  great  Tartarin  of  Tarascon? — waddled  along  the 
quays,  followed  by  his  gun-cases,  medicine-chest,  and  tinned 
comestibles,  to  reach  the  landing-stage  of  the  Touache  Com- 
pany and  the  mail  steamer  the  Zouave,  which  was  to  trans- 
port him  over  the  sea. 

With  his  ears  still  ringing  with  the  home  applause,  intoxi- 
cated by  the  glare  of  the  heavens  and  the  reek  of  the  sea, 
Tartarin  fairly  beamed  as  he  stepped  out  with  a  lofty  head, 
and  between  his  guns  on  his  shoulders,  looking  with  all  his 
eyes  upon  that  wondrous,  dazzling  harbour  of  Marseilles, 
which  he  saw  for  the  first  time.  The  poor  fellow  believed 
he  was  dreaming.  He  fancied  his  name  was  Sinbad  the  Sailor, 
and  that  he  was  roaming  in  one  of  those  fantastic  cities 
abundant  in  the  Arabian  Nights.  As  far  as  eye  could  reach 
there  spread  a  forest  of  masts  and  spars,  cris-crossing  in  every 
way. 

Flags  of  all  countries  floated — English,  American,  Russian, 
Swedish,  Greek  and  Tunisian. 

The  vessels  lay  alongside  the  wharves — ay,  head  on,  so 
that  their  bowsprits  stuck  up  out  over  the  strand  like  rows  of 
bayonets.  Over  it,  too,  sprawled  the  mermaids,  goddesses, 
madonnas,  and  other  figure-heads  in  carved  and  painted  wood 
which  gave  names  to  the  ships — all  worn  by  sea-water,  split, 
mildewed,  and  dripping.  Ever  and  anon,  between  the  hulls, 
a  patch  of  harbour  like  watered  silk  splashed  with  oil.  In 
the  intervals  of  the  yards  and  booms,  what  seemed  swarms 


In  Tarascon  3  i 

of  flies  prettily  spotted  the  blue  sky.  These  were  the  ship- 
boys,  hailing  one  another  in  all  languages. 

On  the  waterside,  amidst  thick  green  or  black  rivulets 
coming  down  from  the  soap-factories  loaded  with  oil  and 
soda,  bustled  a  mass  of  custom-house  officers,  messengers, 
porters,  and  truckmen  with  their  bogheys,  or  trolleys,  drawn 
by  Corsican  ponies. 

There  were  shops  selling  quaint  articles,  smoky  shanties 
where  sailors  were  cooking  their  own  queer  messes,  dealers 
in  pipes,  monkeys,  parrots,  ropes,  sailcloth,  fanciful  curios, 
amongst  which  were  mingled  higgledy-piggledy  old  culverins. 
huge  gilded  lanterns,  worn-out  pulley-blocks,  rusty  flukeless 
anchors,  chafed  cordage,  battered  speaking-trumpets,  and 
marine  glasses  almost  contemporary  with  the  Ark.  Sellers 
of  mussels  and  clams  squatted  beside  their  heaps  of  shellfish 
and  yawped  their  goods.  Seamen  rolled  by  with  tar-pots, 
smoking  soup-bowls,  and  big  baskets  full  of  cuttlefish,  from 
which  they  went  to  wash  the  ink  in  the  milky  waters  of  the 
fountains. 

Everywhere  a  prodigious  collection  of  all  kinds  of  goods: 
silks,  minerals,  wood  in  stacks,  lead  in  pigs,  cloths,  sugars, 
caruba  wood  logs,  colza  seed,  liquorice  sticks,  sugar-canes. 
The  East  and  the  West  cheek  by  jowl,  even  to  pyramids 
of  Dutch  cheeses  which  the  Genoese  were  dyeing  red  by 
hand. 

Yonder  was  the  corn  market:  porters  discharging  sacks 
down  the  shoots  of  lofty  elevators  upon  the  pier,  and  loose 
grain  rolling  as  a  golden  torrent  through  a  blonde  dust. 
Men  in  red  skullcaps  were  sifting  it  as  they  caught  it  in  large 
asses'-skin  sieves,  and  loading  it  upon  carts  which  took  their 
millward  way,  followed  by  a  regiment  of  women  and 
youngsters  with  wisps  and  gleaning-baskets.  Farther  on, 
the  dry  docks,  where  large  vessels  were  laid  low  on  their 
sides  till  their  yards  dipped  in  the  water;  they  were  singed 
with  thorn-bushes  to  free  them  of  sea-weed;  there  rose  an 
odour  of  pitch,  and  the  deafening  clatter  of  the  sheathers 
coppering  the  bottoms  with  broad  sheets  of  yellow  metal. 

At  whiles  a  gap  in  between  the  masts,  in  which  Tartarin 
could  see  the  haven  mouth,  where  the  vessels  came  and 
went:  a  British  frigate  off  for  Malta,  dainty  and  thoroughly 
washed  down^  with  the  officer  in  primrose  gloves,  or  a  large 


3  2  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

home-port  brig  hauling  out  in  the  midst  of  uproar  and  oaths, 
whilst  the  fat  captain,  in  a  high  silk  hat  and  frockcoat, 
ordered  the  operations  in  Provencal  dialect.  Other  craft 
were  making  forth  under  all  sail,  and,  still  farther  out,  more 
were  slowly  looming  up  in  the  sunshine  as  if  they  were  sailing 
in  the  air. 

All  the  time  a  frightful  riot,  the  rumbling  of  carts,  the 
"  Haul  all,  haul  away !  "  of  the  shipmen,  oaths,  songs,  steam- 
boat whistles,  the  bugles  and  drums  in  Forts  Saint  Jean  and 
Saint  Nicolas,  the  bells  of  the  Major,  the  Accoules,  and  Saint 
Victor;  with  the  mistral  atop  of  all,  catching  up  the  noises 
and  clamour,  and  rolling  them  up  together  with  a  furious 
shaking,  till  confounded  with  its  own  voice,  which  intoned  a 
mad,  wild,  heroic  melody  like  a  grand  charging  tune — one 
that  filled  hearers  with  a  longing  to  be  off,  and  the  farther  the 
better — a  craving  for  wings. 

It  M  as  to  the  sound  of  this  splendid  blast  that  the  intrepid 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  embarked  for  the  land  of  lions. 


EPISODE  THE  SECOND 

AMONG  "THE  TURKS" 


THE  PASSAGE — THE  FIVE  POSITIONS  OF  THE  FEZ — THE  THIRD 
EVENING   OUT — MERCY    UPON    US ! 

Joyful  would  I  be,  my  dear  readers,  if  I  were  a  painter — a 
great  artist,  I  mean — in  order  to  set  under  your  eyes,  at  the 
head  of  this  second  episode,  the  various  positions  taken  by 
Tartarin's  red  cap  in  the  three  days'  passage  it  made  on 
board  of  the  Zouave,  between  France  and  Algeria. 

First  would  I  show  you  it  at  the  steaming  out,  upon  deck, 
arrogant  and  heroic  as  it  was,  forming  a  glory  round  that 
handsome  Tarasconian  head.  Next  would  I  show  you  it 
at  the  harbour-mouth,  when  the  bark  began  to  caper  upon 
the  wa\'es;  I  would  depict  it  for  you  all  of  a  quake  in 
astonishment,  and  as  though  already  experiencing  the 
preliminary  qualms  of  sea-sickness. 

Then,  in  the  Gulf  of  the  Lion,  proportionably  to  the  nearing 
the  open  sea,  where  the  white  caps  heaved  harder,  I  would 
make  you  behold  it  wrestling  with  the  tempest,  and  standing 
on  end  upon  the  hero's  cranium,  with  its  mighty  mane  ol 
blue  wool  bristling  out  in  the  spray  and  breeze. 

Position  Fourth:  at  six  in  the  afternoon,  with  the  Corsican 
coast  in  view;  the  unfortunate  Chechia  hangs  over  the  ship's 
side,  and  lamentably  stares  down  as  though  to  plumb  the 
depths  of  ocean.  Finally  and  lastly,  the  Fifth  Position: 
at  the  back  of  a  narrow  state-room,  in  a  box-bed  so  small  it 
seemed  one  drawer  in  a  nest  of  them,  something  shapeless 
rolled  on  the  pillow  with  moans  of  desolation.  This  was 
the  fez — the  fez  so  defiant  at  the  sailing,  now  reduced  to  the 
vulgar  conditions  of  a  nightcap,  and  pulled  down  over  the 
very  ears  of  the  head  of  a  pallid  and  convulsed  sufferer. 

2>Z 


34 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


How  the  people  of  Tarascon  would  have  kicked  themselves 
for  having  constrained  the  great  Tartarin  to  leave  home, 
if  they  had  but  seen  him  stretched  in  the  bunk  in  the  dull, 
wan  gleam  through  the  dead-light,  amid  the  sickly  odour  of 
cooking  and  wet  wood — the  heart-heaving  perfume  of  mail- 
boats  ;  if  they  had  but  heard  him  gurgle  at  every  turn  of  the 
screw,  wail  for  tea  every  five  minutes,  and  swear  at  the 
steward  in  a  childish  treble ! 

On  my  word  of  honour  as  a  story-teller,  the  poor  Turk 
would  have  made  a  pasteboard  dummy  pity  him. 

Suddenly,  overcome  by  the  nausea,  the  hapless  victim  had 
not  even  the  power  to  undo  the  Algerian  girdle-cloth,  or  lay 
aside  his  armoury;  the  lumpy -handled  hunting-sword 
pounded  his  ribs,  and  the  leather  revolver-case  made  his 
thigh  raw.  To  finish  him  arose  the  taunts  of  Sancho-Tartarin 
who  never  ceased  to  groan  and  inveigh, — 

"  Well,  for  the  biggest  kind  of  imbecile,  you  are  the  finest 
specimen !  I  told  you  truly  how  it  would  be.  Ha,  ha !  you 
were  bound  to  go  to  Africa,  of  course !  Well,  old  merriman, 
now  you  are  going  to  Africa,  how  do  you  like  it?  " 

The  cruellest  part  of  it  was  that,  from  the  retreat  where  he 
was  moaning,  the  hapless  invalid  could  hear  the  passengers 
in  the  grand  saloon  laughing,  munching,  singing,  and  playing 
at  cards.  On  board  the  Zouave  the  company  was  as  jolly 
as  numerous,  composed  of  officers  going  back  to  join  their 
regiments,  ladies  from  the  Marseilles  Alcazar  Music  Hall, 
strolling-players,  a  rich  Mussulman  returning  from  Mecca, 
and  a  very  jocular  Montenegrin  prince,  who  favoured  them 
with  imitations  of  the  low  comedians  of  Paris.  Not  one  of 
these  jokers  felt  the  sea-sickness,  and  their  time  was  passed 
in  quaffing  champagne  with  the  steamer  captain,  a  good  fat 
born  Marseillais,  who  had  a  wife  and  family  as  well  at  Algiers 
as  at  home,  and  who  answered  to  the  merry  name  of  Bar- 
bassou. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  hated  this  pack  of  wretches;  their 
mirthfulness  deepened  his  sickness. 

At  length,  on  the  third  afternoon,  there  was  such  an  extra- 
ordinary hullabaloo  on  the  deck  that  our  hero  was  roused 
out  of  his  long  torpor.  The  ship's  bell  was  ringing,  and  the 
seamen's  heavy  boots  ran  over  the  planks. 

"  Go   ahead  !     Stop   her  !      Full    astern  !  "   barked   the 


Among  '*The  Turks"  35 

hoarse  voice  of  Captain  Barbassou;  and  then,  "  Finished  with 
engines!  " 

There  was  an  abrupt  check  of  movement,  a  shock,  and  no 
more,  save  the  silent  rolHng  of  the  boat  from  side  to  side 
Uke  a  balloon  in  the  air.  This  strange  stillness  alarmed  the 
Tarasconian. 

"  Heaven  ha'  mercy  upon  us!  "  he  yelled  in  a  terrifying 
voice,  as,  recovering  his  strength  by  magic,  he  bounded  out 
of  his  berth,  and  rushed  upon  deck  with  his  arsenal. 


II 

"to  arms!    to  arms!" 

Only  the  arrival,  not  a  foundering. 

The  Zouave  was  just  gliding  into  the  road-stead — a  fine 
one  of  black,  deep  water,  but  dull  and  still,  almost  deserted. 
On  elevated  ground  ahead  rose  Algiers,  the  White  City,  with 
its  little  houses  of  a  dead  cream-colour  huddling  against  one 
another  lest  they  slid  into  the  sea.  It  was  like  Meudon 
slope  with  a  laundress's  washing  hung  out  to  dry.  Over  it 
a  vast  blue  satin  sky — and  such  a  blue ! 

A  little  restored  from  his  fright,  the  illustrious  Tartarin 
gazed  on  the  landscape,  and  listened  with  respect  to  the 
Montenegrin  prince,  who  stood  by  his  side,  as  he  named  the 
different  parts  of  the  capital,  the  Kasbah,  the  upper  town, 
and  the  Rue  Bab-Azoon.  A  very  finely-brought-up  prince 
was  this  Montenegrin;  moreover,  knowing  Algeria  thoroughly, 
and  fluently  speaking  Arabic.  Hence  Tartarin  thought  of 
cultivating  his  acquaintance. 

All  at  once,  along  the  bulwark  against  which  they  were 
leaning,  the  Tarasconian  perceived  a  row  of  large  black 
hands  clinging  to  it  from  over  the  side.  Almost  instantly 
a  negro's  woolly  head  shot  up  before  him,  and,  ere  he  had 
time  to  open  his  mouth,  the  deck  was  overwhelmed  on  every 
side  by  a  hundred  black  or  yellow  desperadoes,  half  naked, 
hideous,  and  fearsome.  Tartarin  knew  who  these  pirates 
were — "  they  "  of  course,  the  celebrated  "  they  "  who  had  too 
often  been  hunted  after  by  him  in  the  by-ways  of  Tarascon. 

D423 


36 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


At  last  they  had  decided  to  meet  him  face  to  face.  At  the 
outset  surprise  nailed  him  to  the  spot.  But  when  he  saw  the 
outlaws  fall  upon  the  luggage,  tear  off  the  tarpaulin  covering, 
and  actually  commence  the  pillage  of  the  ship,  then  the  hero 
awoke.  Whipping  out  his  hunting-sword,  "To  arms!  to 
arms!  "  he  roared  to  the  passengers;  and  away  he  flew,  the 
foremost  of  all,  upon  the  buccaneers. 

"  Ques  aco  ?  What's  the  stir?  What's  the  matter  with 
you?  "  exclaimed  Captain  Barbassou,  coming  out  of  the 
'tweendecks. 

"About  time  you  did  turn  up,  captain!  Quick,  quick, 
arm  your  men!  " 

"  Eh,  what  for?  dash  it  all !  " 

"  Why,  can't  you  see?  " 

"  See  what?  " 

"  There,  before  you,  the  corsairs  " 

Captain  Barbassou  stared,  bewildered.  At  this  juncture 
a  tall  blackamoor  tore  by  with  our  hero's  medicine-chest 
upon  his  back. 

"  You  cut-throat !  just  wait  for  me !  "  yelled  the  Tarasconer 
as  he  ran  after,  with  the  knife  uplifted. 

But  Barbassou  caught  him  in  the  spring,  and  holding  him 
by  the  waist-sash,  bade  him  be  quiet. 

"  Tron  de  ler  !  by  the  throne  on  high!  they're  no  pirates. 
It's  long  since  there  were  any  pirates  hereabout.  Those 
dark  porters  are  light  porters.     Ha,  ha!  " 

"  P — p — porters?  " 

"  Rather,  only  come  after  the  luggage  to  carry  it  ashore. 
So  put  up  your  cook's  galley  knife,  give  me  your  ticket,  and 
walk  off  behind  that  nigger — an  honest  dog,  who  will  see  you 
to  land,  and  even  into  a  hotel,  if  you  like." 

A  little  abashed,  Tartarin  handed  over  his  ticket,  and 
falling  in  behind  the  representative  of  the  Dark  Continent, 
clambered  down  by  the  hanging-ladder  into  a  big  skiff 
dancing  alongside.  All  his  effects  were  already  there — 
boxes,  trunks,  gun-cases,  tinned  food, — so  cramming  up  the 
boat  that  there  was  no  need  to  wait  for  any  other  passengers. 
The  African  scrambled  upon  the  boxes,  and  squatted  there 
like  a  baboon,  with  his  knees  clutched  by  his  hands. 
Another  negro  took  the  oars.  Both  laughingly  eyed  Tartarin, 
and  showed  their  white  teeth. 


Among  "  The  Turks  "  37 

Standing  in  the  stern-sheets,  making  that  terrifying  face 
which  had  daunted  his  fellow-countrymen,  the  great  Taras- 
conian  feverishly  fumbled  with  his  hunting-knife  haft;  for, 
despite  what  Barbassou  had  told  him,  he  was  only  half  at 
ease  as  regarded  the  intention  of  these  ebony-skinned  porters, 
who  so  little  resembled  their  honest  mates  of  Tarascon. 

Five  minutes  afterwards  the  skiff  landed  Tartarin,  and  he 
set  foot  upon  the  little  Barbary  wharf,  where,  three  hundred 
years  before,  a  Spanish  galley-slave  yclept  Miguel  Cervantes 
devised,  under  the  cane  of  the  Algerian  taskmaster,  a  sublime 
romance  which  was  to  bear  the  title  of  Don  Quixote. 


Ill 


AN  INVOCATION  TO  CERVANTES — THE  DISEMBARKATION  — 
WHERE  ARE  THE  TURKS? — NOT  A  SIGN  OF  THEM — DIS- 
ENCHANTMENT 

0  Miguel  Cervantes  Saavedra,  if  what  is  asserted  be  true, 
to  wit,  that  wherever  great  men  have  dwelt  some  emanation 
of  their  spirits  wanderingly  hovers  until  the  end  of  ages,  then 
what  remained  of  your  essence  on  the  Barbary  coast  must 
have  quivered  with  glee  on  beholding  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
disembark,  that  marvellous  type  of  the  French  Southerner, 
in  whom  was  embodied  both  heroes  of  your  work,  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza. 

The  air  was  sultry  on  this  occasion.  On  the  wharf,  ablaze 
with  sunshine,  were  half  a  dozen  revenue  officers,  some 
Algerians  expecting  news  from  France,  several  squatting 
Moors  who  drew  at  long  pipes,  and  some  Maltese  mariners 
dragging  large  nets,  between  the  meshes  of  which  thousands 
of  sardines  glittered  like  small  silver  coins. 

But  hardly  had  Tartarin  set  foot  on  earth  before  the  quay 
sprang  into  life  and  changed  its  aspect.  A  horde  of  savages, 
still  more  hideous  than  the  pirates  upon  the  steamer,  rose 
between  the  stones  on  the  strand  and  rushed  upon  the  new- 
comer. Tall  Arabs  were  there,  nude  under  woollen  blankets, 
little  Moors  in  tatters,  negroes,  Tunisians,  Port  Mahonese, 


38  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

M'zabites,  hotel  servants  in  white  aprons,  all  yelling  and 
shouting,  hooking  on  his  clothes,  fighting  over  his  luggage, 
one  carrying  away  the  provender,  another  his  medicine-chest, 
and  pelting  him  in  one  fantastic  medley  with  the  names  of 
preposterously-entitled  hotels. 

Bewildered  by  all  this  tumult,  poor  Tartarin  wandered  to 
and  fro,  swore  and  stormed,  went  mad,  ran  after  his  property, 
and  not  knowing  how  to  make  these  barbarians  understand 
him,  speechified  them  in  French,  Provencal,  and  even  in  dog 
Latin:  "  Rosa,  the  rose;  bonus,  bona,  bonum  ! " — all  that  he 
knew — but  to  no  purpose.  He  was  not  heeded.  Happily, 
like  a  god  in  Homer,  intervened  a  little  fellow  in  a  yellow- 
collared  tunic,  and  armed  with  a  long  running-footman's 
cane,  who  dispersed  the  whole  riff-raflp  with  cudgel-play. 
He  was  a  policeman  of  the  Algerian  capital.  Very  politely, 
he  suggested  Tartarin  should  put  up  at  the  Hotel  de 
I'Europe,  and  he  confided  him  to  its  waiters,  who  carted  him 
and  his  impedifiienta  thither  in  several  barrows. 

At  the  first  steps  he  took  in  Algiers,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
opened  his  eyes  widely.  Beforehand  he  had  pictured  it  as 
an  Oriental  city — a  fairy  one,  mythological,  something 
between  Constantinople  and  Zanzibar;  but  it  was  back  into 
Tarascon  he  fell.  Cafes,  restaurants,  wide  streets,  four- 
storey  houses,  a  little  market-place,  macadamised,  where  the 
infantry  band  played  Offenbachian  polkas,  whilst  fashionably 
clad  gentlemen  occupied  chairs,  drinking  beer  and  eating  pan- 
cakes, some  brilliant  ladies,  some  shabby  ones,  and  soldiers 
— more  soldiers — no  end  of  soldiers,  but  not  a  solitary  Turk, 
or,  better  to  say,  there  was  a  solitary  Turk  and  that 
was  he. 

Hence  he  felt  a  little  abashed  about  crossing  the  square, 
for  everybody  looked  at  him.  The  musicians  stopped,  the 
Offenbachian  polka  halting  with  one  foot  in  the  air. 

With  both  guns  on  his  shoulders,  and  the  revolver  flapping 
on  his  hip,  as  fierce  and  stately  as  Robinson  Crusoe,  Tartarin 
gravely  passed  through  the  groups;  but  on  arriving  at  the 
hotel  his  powers  failed  him.  All  spun  and  mingled  in  his 
head :  the  departure  from  Tarascon,  the  harbour  of  Marseilles, 
the  voyage,  the  Montenegrin  prince,  the  corsairs.  They  had 
to  help  him  up  into  a  room  and  disarm  and  undress  him. 
They  began  to  talk  of  sending  for  a  medical  adviser;    but 


Among  "  The  Turks  "  39 

hardly  was  our  hero's  head  upon  the  pillow  than  he  set  to 
snoring,  so  loudly  and  so  heartily  that  the  landlord  judged 
the  succour  of  science  useless,  and  everybody  considerately 
withdrew. 


IV 

THE    FIRST    LYING    IN    WAIT 

Three  o'clock  was  striking  by  the  Government  clock  when 
Tartarin  awoke.  He  had  slept  all  the  evening,  night,  and 
morning,  and  even  a  goodish  piece  of  the  afternoon.  It 
must  be  granted,  though,  that  in  the  last  three  days  the  red 
fez  had  caught  it  pretty  hot  and  lively ! 

Our  hero's  first  thought  on  opening  his  eyes  was,  "  I  am 
in  the  land  of  the  lions!  "  And — well,  why  should  we  not 
say  it? — at  the  idea  that  lions  were  nigh  hereabouts,  within 
a  couple  of  steps,  almost  at  hand's  reach,  and  that  he  would 
have  to  disentangle  a  snarled  skein  with  them,  ugh !  a  deadly 
chill  struck  him,  and  he  dived  intrepidly  under  the  coverlet. 

But,  before  a  moment  was  over,  the  outward  gaiety,  the 
blue  sky,  the  glowing  sun  that  streamed  into  the  bedchamber, 
a  nice  little  breakfast  that  he  ate  in  bed,  his  window  wide 
open  upon  the  sea,  the  whole  flavoured  with  an  uncommonly 
good  bottle  of  Crescia  wine — it  very  speedily  restored  him 
his  former  pluckiness. 

"  Let's  out  and  at  the  lion!  "  he  exclaimed,  throwing  off 
the  clothes  and  briskly  dressing  himself. 

His  plan  was  as  follows:  he  would  go  forth  from  the  city 
without  saying  a  word  to  a  soul,  plunge  into  the  great  desert, 
await  nightfall  to  ambush  himself,  and  bang  away  at  the  first 
lion  who  walked  up.  Then  would  he  return  to  breakfast  in 
the  morning  at  the  hotel,  receive  the  felicitations  of  the 
natives,  and  hire  a  cart  to  bring  in  the  quarry. 

So  he  hurriedly  armed  himself,  attached  upright  on  his  back 
the  shelter-tent  (which,  when  rolled  up,  left  its  centre  pole 
sticking  out  a  clear  foot  above  his  head),  and  descended  to 
the  street  as  stiffly  as  though  he  had  swallowed  it.  Not 
caring  to  ask  the  way  of  anybody,  from  fear  of  letting  out 


40  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

his  project,  he  turned  fairly  to  the  right,  and  threaded  the 
Bab-Azoon  arcade  to  the  very  end,  where  swarms  of  Algerian 
Jews  watched  him  pass  from  their  corner  ambushes  like  so 
many  spiders;  crossing  the  Theatre  place,  he  entered  the 
outer  ward,  and  lastly  came  upon  the  dusty  Mustapha  high- 
way. 

Upon  this  was  a  quaint  conglomeration:  omnibuses, 
hackney  coaches,  corricolos,  the  army  service  waggons,  huge 
hay-carts  drawn  by  bullocks,  squads  of  Chasseurs  d'Afrique, 
droves  of  microscopic  asses,  trucks  of  Alsatian  emigrants, 
spahis  in  scarlet  cloaks — all  filed  by  in  a  whirlwind  cloud  of 
dust,  amidst  shouts,  songs,  and  trumpet-calls,  between  two 
rows  of  vile-looking  booths,  at  the  doors  of  which  lanky 
Malionnais  women  might  be  seen  doing  their  hair,  drinking 
dens  filled  with  soldiers,  and  shops  of  butchers  and  knackers. 

"  What  rubbish,  to  din  me  about  the  Orient!  "  grumbled 
the  great  Tartarin;  "  there  are  not  even  as  many  Turks 
here  as  at  Marseilles." 

All  of  a  sudden  he  saw  a  splendid  camel  strut  by  him  quite 
closely,  stretching  its  long  legs  and  puffing  out  its  throat  like 
a  turkey-cock,  and  that  made  his  heart  throb.  Camels 
already,  eh?  Lions  could  not  be  far  off  now;  and,  indeed, 
in  five  minutes'  time  he  did  see  a  whole  band  of  lion-hunters 
coming  his  way  under  arms. 

"  Cowards !  "  thought  our  hero  as  he  skirted  them ;  "  down- 
right cowards,  to  go  at  a  lion  in  companies  and  with  dogs !  " 

For  it  never  could  occur  to  him  that  anything  but  lions 
were  objects  of  the  chase  in  Algeria.  For  all  that,  these 
Nimrods  wore  such  complacent  phizzes  of  retired  tradesmen, 
and  their  style  of  lion-hunting  with  dogs  and  game-bags 
was  so  patriarchal,  that  the  Tarasconian,  a  little  perplexed, 
deemed  it  incumbent  to  question  one  of  the  gentlemen. 

"  And  furthermore,  comrade,  is  the  sport  good?  " 

"  Not  bad,"  responded  the  other,  regarding  the  speaker's 
imposing  warlike  equipment  with  a  scared  eye. 

"Killed  any?" 

"  Rather!     Not  so  bad— only  look." 

Whereupon  the  Algerian  sportsman  showed  that  it  was 
rabbits  and  woodcocks  stuffing  out  the  bag. 

"  What!  do  you  call  that  your  bag?  Do  you  put  such 
like  in  your  bag?  " 


Among  "  The  Turks  "  41 

"  Where  else  should  I  put  'em?  " 

■'  But  it's  such  little  game." 

"  Some  run  small  and  some  run  large,"  observed  the 
hunter. 

In  haste  to  catch  up  with  his  companions,  he  joined  them 
with  several  long  strides.  The  dauntless  Tartarin  remained 
rooteJ  in  the  middle  of  the  road  with  stupefaction. 

"Pooh!"  he  ejaculated,  after  a  moment's  reflection, 
"  these  are  jokers.  They  haven't  killed  anything  whatever :  "' 
and  he  went  his  way. 

Already  the  houses  became  scarcer,  and  so  did  the 
passengers.  Dark  came  on  and  objects  were  blurred,  though 
Tartarin  walked  on  for  half  an  hour  more,  when  he  stopped, 
for  it  was  night.  A  moonless  night,  too,  but  sprinkled  with 
stars.  On  the  highroad  there  was  nobody.  The  hero  con- 
cluded that  lions  are  not  stage-coaches,  and  would  not  of 
their  own  choice  travel  the  main  ways.  So  he  wheeled  into 
the  fields,  where  there  were  brambles  and  ditches  and  bushes 
at  every  step,  but  he  kept  on  nevertheless. 

But  suddenly  he  halted. 

"  I  smell  lions  about  here!  "  said  our  friend,  sniffing  right 
and  left. 


BANG,  bang! 

Certainly  a  great  wilderness,  bristling  with  odd  plants  of 
that  Oriental  kind  which  look  like  wicked  creatures.  Under 
the  feeble  starlight  their  magnified  shadows  barred  the 
ground  in  every  way.  On  the  right  loomed  up  confusedly 
the  heavy  mass  of  a  mountain — perhaps  the  Atlas  range. 
On  the  heart-hand,  the  invisible  sea  hollowly  rolling.  The 
very  spot  to  attract  wild  beasts. 

With  one  gun  laid  before  him  and  the  other  in  his  grasp, 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  went  down  on  one  knee  and  waited  an 
hour,  ay,  a  good  couple,  and  nothing  turned  up.  Then  he 
bethought  him  how,  in  his  books,  the  great  lion-slayers  never 
went  out  hunting  without  having  a  lamb  or  a  kid  along  with 


42  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

therrij  which  they  tied  up  a  space  before  them^  and  set  bleat- 
ing or  baa-ing  by  jerking  its  foot  with  a  string.  Not  having 
any  goat,  the  Tarasconer  had  the  idea  of  employing  an 
imitation,  and  he  set  to  crying  in  a  tremulous  voice, — 

"  Baa-a-a!  " 

At  first  it  was  done  very  softly,  because  at  bottom  he  was 
a  little  alarmed  lest  the  lion  should  hear  him;  but  as  nothing 
came,  he  baa-ed  more  loudly.  Still  nothing.  Losing 
patience,  he  resumed  many  times  running  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  till  the  "  Baa,  baa,  baa!  "  came  out  with  so  much 
power  that  the  goat  began  to  be  mistakable  for  a  bull. 

Unexpectedly,  a  few  steps  in  front,  some  gigantic  black 
thing  appeared.  He  was  hushed.  This  thing  lowered  its 
head,  sniffed  the  ground,  bounded  up,  rolled  over,  and 
darted  off  at  the  gallop,  but  returned  and  stopped  short. 
Who  could  doubt  it  was  the  lion  ?  for  now  its  four  short  legs 
could  plainly  be  seen,  its  formidable  mane  and  its  large  eyes 
gleaming  in  the  gloom. 

Up  went  his  gun  into  position.  Fire's  the  word!  and 
bang,  bang!  it  was  done.  And  immediately  there  was  a 
leap  back  and  the  drawing  of  the  hunting-knife.  To  the 
Tarasconian's  shot  a  terrible  roaring  replied. 

"  He's  got  it!  "  cried  our  good  Tartarin  as,  steadying  him- 
self on  his  sturdy  supporters,  he  prepared  to  receive  the 
brute's  charge. 

But  it  had  more  than  its  fill,  and  galloped  off,  howling. 
He  did  not  budge,  for  he  expected  to  see  the  female  mate 
appear,  as  the  story-books  always  lay  it  down  she  should. 

Unhappily,  no  female  came.  After  two  or  three  hours' 
waiting  the  Tarasconian  grew  tired.  The  ground  was  damp, 
the  night  was  getting  cool,  and  the  sea-breeze  pricked 
sharply. 

"  I  have  a  good  mind  to  take  a  nap  till  daylight,"  he  said 
to  himself. 

To  avoid  catching  rheumatism,  he  had  recourse  to  his 
patent  tent.  But  here's  where  Old  Nick  interfered!  This 
tent  was  of  so  very  ingenious  a  construction  that  he  could 
not  manage  to  open  it.  In  vain  did  he  toil  over  it  and 
perspire  an  hour  through — the  confounded  apparatus  would 
not  come  unfolded.  There  are  some  umbrellas  which  amuse 
themselves  under  torrential  rains  with  just  such  tricks  upon 


Among  "  The  Turks  "  43 

you.  Fairly  tired  out  with  the  struggle,  the  victim  dashed 
down  the  machine  and  lay  upon  it,  swearing  like  the  regular 
Southron  he  was. 

"  Tar,  tar,  rar,  tar  !  tar,  rar,  tar  !  " 

"  What  on  earth's  that?  "  wondered  Tartarin,  suddenly 
aroused. 

It  was  the  bugles  of  the  Chasseurs  d'Afrique  sounding  the 
turn-out  in  the  Mustapha  barracks.  The  stupefied  lion- 
slayer  rubbed  his  eyes,  for  he  had  believed  himself  out  in 
the  boundless  wilderness;  and  do  you  know  where  he  really 
was  ? — in  a  field  of  artichokes,  between  a  cabbage-garden  and 
a  patch  of  beets.     His  Sahara  grew  kitchen  vegetables. 

Close  to  him,  on  the  pretty  verdant  slope  of  Upper  Mus- 
tapha, the  snowy  villas  glowed  in  the  rosy  rising  sun: 
anybody  would  believe  himself  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Marseilles,  amongst  its  bastides  and  bastidons. 

The  commonplace  and  kitchen-gardenish  aspect  of  this 
sleep-steeped  country  much  astonished  the  poor  man,  and 
put  him  in  bad  humour. 

"  These  folk  are  crazy,"  he  reasoned,  "  to  plant  arti- 
chokes in  the  prowling-ground  of  lions;  for,  in  short,  I  have 
not  been  dreaming.  Lions  have  come  here,  and  there's  the 
proof." 

What  he  called  the  proof  was  blood-spots  left  behind  the 
beast  in  its  flight.  Bending  over  this  ruddy  trail,  with  his 
eye  on  the  look-out  and  his  revolver  in  his  fist,  the  valiant 
Tarasconian  went  from  artichoke  to  artichoke  up  to  a  little 
field  of  oats.  In  the  trampled  grass  was  a  pool  of  blood, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  pool,  lying  on  its  flank,  with  a  large 
wound  in  the  head,  was  a — guess  what .'' 

"  A  lion,  of  course !  " 

Not  a  bit  of  it!  An  ass! — one  of  those  little  donkeys  so 
common  in  Algeria,  where  they  are  called  bourriquots. 


44  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


VI 


ARRIVAL    OF   THE    FEMALE — A   TERRIBLE    COMBAT —     GAME 
FELLOWS    MEET    HERE !  " 

Looking  on  his  hapless  victim,  Tartarin's  first  impulse  was 
one  of  vexation.  There  is  such  a  wide  gap  between  a  lion 
and  poor  Jack !  His  second  feeling  was  one  of  pity.  The 
poor  bourriquot  was  so  pretty  and  looked  so  kindly.  The 
hide  on  his  still  warm  sides  heaved  and  fell  like  waves. 
Tartarin  knelt  down^  and  strove  with  the  end  of  his  Algerian 
sash  to  stanch  the  blood;  and  all  you  can  imagine  in  the 
way  of  touchingness  was  offered  by  the  picture  of  this  great 
man  tending  this  little  ass. 

At  the  touch  of  the  silky  cloth  the  donkey,  who  had  not 
twopennyworth  of  life  in  him,  opened  his  large  grey  eye  and 
winked  his  long  ears  two  or  three  times,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Oh,  thank  you !  "  before  a  final  spasm  shook  it  from  head 
to  tail,  whereafter  it  stirred  no  more. 

"  Noiraud !  Blackey !  "  suddenly  screamed  a  voice,  choking 
with  anguish,  as  the  branches  in  a  thicket  hard  by  moved  at 
the  same  time. 

Tartarin  had  no  more  than  enough  time  to  rise  and  stand 
upon  guard.     This  was  the  female ! 

She  rushed  up,  fearsome  and  roaring,  under  form  of  an 
old  Alsatian  woman,  her  hair  in  a  kerchief,  armed  with  large 
red  umbrella,  and  calling  for  her  ass,  till  all  the  echoes  of 
Mustapha  rang.  It  certainly  would  have  been  better  for 
Tartarin  to  have  had  to  deal  with  a  lioness  in  fury  than  this 
old  virago.  In  vain  did  the  luckless  sportsman  try  to  make 
her  understand  how  the  blunder  had  occurred,  and  he  had 
mistaken  "  Noiraud  "  for  a  lion.  The  harridan  beheved  he 
was  making  fun  of  her,  and  uttering  energetical  "  Der 
Teufels  !  "  fell  upon  our  hero  to  bang  him  with  the  gingham. 
A  little  bewildered,  Tartarin  defended  himself  as  best  he 
could,  warding  off  the  blows  with  his  rifle,  streaming  with 
perspiration,  panting,  jumping  about,  and  crying  out, — 

"  But,  Madame,  but  " 


Among  "  The  Turks  "  45 

Much  good  his  buts  were!  Madame  was  dull  of  hearing, 
and  her  blows  continued  hard  as  ever. 

Fortunately  a  third  party  arrived  on  the  battlefield,  the 
Alsatian's  husband,  of  the  same  race;  a  roadside  innkeeper, 
as  well  as  a  very  good  ready-reckoner,  which  was  better. 
When  he  saw  what  kind  of  a  customer  he  had  to  deal  with 
— a  slaughterer  who  only  wanted  to  pay  the  value  of  his 
victim — he  disarmed  his  better-half,  and  they  came  to  an 
understanding. 

Tartarin  gave  two  hundred  francs,  the  donkey  being  worth 
about  ten — at  least  that  is  the  current  price  in  the  Arab 
markets.  Then  poor  Blackey  was  laid  to  rest  at  the  root  of 
a  fig-tree,  and  the  Alsatian,  raised  to  joviality  by  the  colour 
of  the  Tarascan  ducats,  invited  the  hero  to  have  a  quencher 
with  him  in  his  wine-shop,  which  stood  only  a  few  steps  off 
on  the  edge  of  the  highway.  Every  Sunday  the  sportsmen 
from  the  city  came  there  to  regale  of  a  morning,  for  the 
plain  abounded  with  game,  and  there  was  no  better  place 
for  rabbits  for  two  leagues  around. 

"  How  about  lions?  "  inquired  Tartarin. 

The  Alsatian  stared  at  him,  greatly  astounded. 

"Lions!" 

"  Yes,  lions.  Don't  you  see  them  sometimes?  "  resumed 
the  poor  fellow,  with  less  confidence. 

The  Boniface  burst  out  in  laughter. 

"  Ho,  ho !  bless  us !  lions !  What  would  we  do  with  lions 
here?" 

"  Are  there,  then,  none  in  Algeria?  " 

"  'Pon  my  faith,  I  never  saw  any,  albeit  I  have  been 
twenty  years  in  the  colony.  Still,  I  believe  I  have  heard 
tell  of  such  a  thing — leastwise,  I  fancy  the  newspapers  said 
— but  that  is  ever  so  much  farther  inland — down  South,  you 
know  " 

At  this  point  they  reached  the  hostelry',  a  suburban  pot- 
house, with  a  withered  green  bough  over  the  door,  crossed 
billiard-cues  painted  on  the  wall,  and  this  harmless  sign  over 
a  picture  of  wild  rabbits  feeding, — 

"  GAME  FELLOWS  MEET  HERE:' 

"Game  fellows!"  It  made  Tartarin  think  of  Captain 
Bravida. 


46  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


VII 


ABOUT   AN    OMNIBUS,    A    MOORISH   BEAUTY,    AND    A 
WREATH   OF   JESSAMINE 

Common  people  would  have  been  discouraged  by  such  a  first 
adventure,  but  men  of  Tartarin's  mettle  do  not  easily  get 
cast  down. 

"  The  lions  are  in  the  South,  are  they?  "  mused  the  hero. 
"  Very  well,  then.     South  I  go." 

As  soon  as  he  had  swallowed  his  last  mouthful  he  jumped 
up,  thanked  his  host,  nodded  good-bye  to  the  old  hag  without 
any  ill-will,  dropped  a  final  tear  over  the  hapless  Blackey, 
and  quickly  returned  to  Algiers,  with  the  firm  intention  of 
packing  up  and  starting  that  very  day  for  the  South. 

The  Mustapha  highroad  seemed,  unfortunately,  to  have 
stretched  since  overnight;  and  what  a  sun  and  dust  there 
were,  and  what  a  weight  in  that  shelter-tent!  Tartarin  did 
not  feel  to  have  the  courage  to  walk  to  the  town,  and  he 
beckoned  to  the  first  omnibus  coming  along,  and  climbed  in. 

Oh,  our  poor  Tartarin  of  Tarascon!  how  much  better  it 
would  have  been  for  his  name  and  fame  not  to  have  stepped 
into  that  fatal  ark  on  wheels,  but  to  have  continued  on  his 
road  afoot,  at  the  risk  of  falling  suffocated  beneath  the 
burden  of  the  atmosphere,  the  tent,  and  his  heavy  double- 
barrelled  rifles. 

When  Tartarin  got  in  the  'bus  was  full.  At  the  end,  with 
his  nose  in  his  prayer-book,  sat  a  large  and  black-bearded 
vicar  from  town;  facing  him  was  a  young  Moorish  merchant 
smoking  coarse  cigarettes,  and  a  Maltese  sailor  and  four  or 
five  Moorish  women  muffled  up  in  white  cloths,  so  that  only 
their  eyes  could  be  spied.  These  ladies  had  been  to  offer  up 
prayers  in  the  Abdel  Kader  cemetery;  but  this  funereal  visit 
did  not  seem  to  have  much  saddened  them,  for  they  could 
be  heard  chuckling  and  chattering  between  themselves  under 
their  coverings  whilst  munching  pastry.  Tartarin  fancied 
that  they  watched  him  narrowly.  One  in  particular,  seated 
over  against  him,  had  fixed  her  eyes  upon  his,  and  never 
took  them  off  all  the  drive.     Although  the  dame  was  veiled, 


Among  "  The  Turks  "  47 

the  liveliness  of  the  big  black  eyes,  lengthened  out  by  k^hol ; 
a  delightfully  slender  wrist  loaded  with  gold  bracelets,  of 
which  a  glimpse  was  given  from  time  to  time  among  the 
folds;  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  graceful,  almost  childlike, 
movements  of  the  head,  all  revealed  that  a  young,  pretty, 
and  lovable  creature  bloomed  underneath  the  veil.  The  un- 
fortunate Tartarin  did  not  know  where  to  shrink.  The  fond, 
mute  gaze  of  these  splendrous  Oriental  orbs  agitated  him, 
perturbed  him,  and  made  him  feel  like  dying  with  flushes  of 
heat  and  fits  of  cold  shivers. 

To  finish  him,  the  lady's  slipper  meddled  in  the  onslaught: 
he  felt  the  dainty  thing  wander  and  frisk  about  over  his 
heav}^  hunting  boots  like  a  tiny  red  mouse.  What  could  he 
do.-*  Answer  the  glance  and  the  pressure,  of  course.  Ay, 
but  what  about  the  consequences  ?  A  loving  intrigue  in  the 
East  is  a  terrible  matter!  With  his  romantic  southern 
nature,  the  honest  Tarasconian  saw  himself  already  falling 
into  the  grip  of  the  eunuchs,  to  be  decapitated,  or  better — 
we  mean,  worse — than  that,  sewn  up  in  a  leather  sack  and 
sunk  in  the  sea  with  his  head  under  his  arm  beside  him. 
This  somewhat  cooled  him.  In  the  meantime  the  little 
slipper  continued  its  proceedings,  and  the  eyes,  widely  open 
opposite  him  like  twin  black  velvet  flowers,  seemed  to 
say,— 

"  Come,  cull  us!  " 

The  'bus  stopped  on  the  Theatre  place,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Rue  Bab-Azoon.  One  by  one,  embedded  in  their  volu- 
minous trousers,  and  drawing  their  mufflers  around  them 
with  wild  grace,  the  Moorish  women  alighted.  Tartarin's 
confrontatress  was  the  last  to  rise,  and  in  doing  so  her  coun- 
tenance skimmed  so  closely  to  our  hero's  that  her  breath 
enveloped  him — a  veritable  nosegay  of  youth  and  freshness, 
with  an  indescribable  after-tang  of  musk,  jessamine,  and 
pastry. 

The  Tarasconian  stood  out  no  longer.  Intoxicated  with 
love,  and  ready  for  anything,  he  darted  out  after  the  beauty. 
At  the  rumpling  sound  of  his  belts  and  boots  she  turned,  laid 
a  finger  on  her  veiled  mouth,  as  who  would  say,  "  Hush !  " 
and  with  the  other  hand  quickly  tossed  him  a  little  wreath 
of  sweet-scented  jessamine  flowers.  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
stooped  to  pick  it  up ;  but  as  he  was  rather  clumsy,  and  much 


4^  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

overburdened  with  implements  of  war,  the  operation  took 
rather  long.  When  he  did  straighten  up,  with  the  jessamine 
garland  upon  his  heart,  the  giver  harl  \'anished. 


viir 

YE    LIONS    OF   THE   ATLAS,    REPOSE    IN    PEACE ! 

Lions  of  the  Altas,  sleep! — sleep  tranquilly  at  the  back  of 
your  lairs  amid  the  aloes  and  cacti.  For  a  few  days  to  come, 
any  way,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  will  not  massacre  you.  For 
the  time  being,  all  his  warlike  paraphernalia,  gun-cases, 
medicine-chest,  alimentary  preserves,  dwelt  peacefully  under 
cover  in  a  corner  of  room  36  in  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe. 

Sleep  with  no  fear,  great  red  lions,  the  Tarasconian  is 
engaged  in  looking  up  that  Moorish  charmer.  Since  the 
adventure  in  the  omnibus,  the  unfortunate  swain  perpetu- 
ally fancied  he  felt  the  fidgeting  of  that  petty  red  mouse 
upon  his  huge  backwoods  trapper's  foot;  and  the  sea-breeze 
fanning  his  lips  was  ever  scented,  do  what  he  would,  with  a 
love-exciting  odour  of  sweetcakes  and  aniseed. 

He  hungered  for  his  indispensable  light  of  the  harem ! 
and  he  meant  to  behold  her  anew. 

But  it  was  no  joke  of  a  task.  To  find  one  certain  person  in 
a  city  of  a  hundred  thousand  souls,  only  known  by  the  eyes, 
breath,  and  slipper,— none  but  a  son  of  Tarascon,  panoplied 
by  love,  would  be  capable  of  attempting  such  an  adventure. 

The  plague  is  that,  under  their  broad  white  mufflers,  all  the 
Moorish  women  resemble  one  another;  besides,  they  do  not 
go  about  much,  and  to  see  them,  a  man  has  to  climb  up  into 
the  native  or  upper  town,  the  city  of  the  "  Turks,"  and  that  is 
a  regular  cut-throat's  den. 

Little  black  alleys,  very  narrow,  climbing  perpendicularly 
up  between  mysterious  house-walls,  whose  roofs  lean  to 
touching  and  form  a  tunnel;  low  doors,  and  sad,  silent  little 
casements  well  barred  and  grated.  Moreover,  on  both 
hands,  stacks  of  darksome  stalls,  wherein  ferocious  "  Turks  " 
smoked  long  pipes  stuck  between  glittering  teeth  in  piratical 


Among  "  The  Turks  "  49 

heads  with  white  eyes,  and  mumbled  in  undertones  as  if 
hatching  wicked  attacks. 

To  say  that  Tartarin  traversed  this  grisly  place  without 
any  emotion  would  be  putting  forth  falsehood.  On  the 
contrary,  he  was  much  affected,  and  the  stout  fellow  only 
went  up  the  obscure  lanes,  where  his  corporation  took  up  all 
the  width,  with  the  utmost  precaution,  his  eye  skinned,  and 
his  finger  on  his  revolver  trigger,  in  the  same  manner  as  he 
went  to  the  clubhouse  at  Tarascon.  At  any  moment  he 
expected  to  have  a  whole  gang  of  eunuchs  and  janissaries 
drop  upon  his  back,  yet  the  longing  to  behold  that  dark 
damsel  again  gave  him  a  giant's  strength  and  boldness. 

For  a  full  week  the  undaunted  Tartarin  never  quitted  the 
high  town.  Yes;  for  all  that  period  he  might  have  been  seen 
cooling  his  heels  before  the  Turkish  bath-houses,  awaiting  the 
hour  when  the  ladies  came  forth  in  troops,  shivering  and  still 
redolent  of  soap  and  hot  water;  or  squatting  at  the  doorways 
of  mosques,  puffing  and  melting  in  trying  to  get  out  of  his 
big  boots  in  order  to  enter  the  temples. 

Betimes  at  nightfall,  when  he  was  returning  heart-broken 
at  not  having  discovered  anything  at  either  bagnio  or  mosque, 
our  man  from  Tarascon,  in  passing  mansions,  would  hear 
monotonous  songs,  smothered  twanging  of  guitars,  thumping 
of  tambourines,  and  feminine  laughter-peals,  which  would 
make  his  heart  beat. 

"Maybe  she  is  there!  "  he  would  say  to  himself. 

Thereupon,  granting  the  street  was  unpeopled,  he  would 
go  up  to  one  of  these  dwellings,  lift  the  heavy  knocker  of  the 
low  postern,  and  timidly  rap.  The  songs  and  merriment 
would  instantly  cease.  There  would  be  audible  behind  the 
wall  nothing  excepting  low,  dull  fiutterings  as  in  a  slumbering 
aviary. 

"  Let's  stick  to  it,  old  boy,''  our  hero  would  think. 
"  Something  will  befall  us  yet." 

What  most  often  befell  him  was  the  contents  of  the  cold- 
water  jug  on  the  head,  or  else  peel  of  oranges  and  Barbarv 
figs;  never  anything  more  serious. 

Well  might  the  lions  of  the  Atlas  Mountains  doze  in 
peace. 


50  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


IX 

PRINCE    GREGORY   OF   MONTENEGRO 

It  was  two  long  weeks  that  the  unfortunate  Tartarin  had 
been  seeking  his  Algerian  flame,  and  most  likely  he  would 
have  been  seeking  after  her  to  this  day  if  the  little  god  kind 
to  lovers  had  not  come  to  his  help  under  the  shape  of  a 
Montenegrin  nobleman. 

It  happened  as  follows. 

Every  Saturday  night  in  winter  there  is  a  masked  ball  at 
the  Grand  Theatre  of  Algiers,  just  as  at  the  Paris  Opera- 
House.  It  is  the  undying  and  ever  tasteless  county  fancy 
dress  ball — very  few  people  on  the  floor,  several  castaways 
from  the  Parisian  students'  ball-rooms  or  midnight  dance- 
houses,  Joans  of  Arc  following  the  army,  faded  characters 
out  of  the  Gavarni  costume-book  of  1840,  and  half-a-dozen 
laundress's  underlings  who  are  aiming  to  make  loftier  con- 
quests, but  still  preserve  a  faint  perfume  of  their  former  life 
— garlic  and  saffron  sauce.  The  real  spectacle  is  not  there, 
but  in  the  green-room,  transformed  for  the  nonce  into  a  hall 
of  green  cloth  or  gaming  saloon. 

An  enfevered  and  motley  mob  hustle  one  another  around 
the  long  green  table-covers:  Turcos  but  for  the  day  and 
staking  their  double  halfpence,  Moorish  traders  from  the 
native  town,  negroes,  Maltese,  colonists  from  the  inland, 
who  have  come  forty  leagues  in  order  to  risk  on  a  turning 
card  the  price  of  a  plough  or  of  a  yoke  of  oxen ;  all  a-quivering, 
pale,  clenching  their  teeth,  and  with  that  singular,  wavering, 
sidelong  look  of  the  gamester,  become  a  squint  from  always 
staring  at  the  same  card  in  the  lay-out. 

A  little  apart  are  the  tribes  of  Algerian  Jews,  playing 
among  acquaintances.  The  men  are  in  the  Oriental  costume, 
hideously  varied  with  blue  stockings  and  velvet  caps.  The 
puffy  and  flabby  women  sit  up  stiffly  in  tight  golden  bodices. 
Grouped  around  the  tables,  the  whole  tribe  wail,  squeal,  com- 
bine, reckon  on  the  fingers,  and  play  but  little.  Now  and 
anon,  however,  after  long  conferences,  some  old  patriarch, 
with  a  beard  like  those  of  saints  by  the  Old  Masters,  detaches 


Among  "  The  Turks  "  51 

himself  from  the  party  and  goes  to  risk  the  family  diiro.  As 
long  as  the  game  lasted  there  would  be  a  scintillation  of 
Hebraic  eyes  directed  on  the  board — dreadful  black  diamonds, 
which  made  the  gold  pieces  shiver,  and  ended  by  gently 
attracting  them,  as  if  drawn  by  a  thread.  Then  arose 
wrangles,  quarrels,  battles,  oaths  of  every  land,  mad  outcries 
in  all  tongues,  knives  flashing  out,  the  guard  marching  in, 
and  the  money  disappearing. 

It  was  into  the  thick  of  this  saturnalia  that  the  great 
Tartarin  came  straying  one  evening  to  find  oblivion  and 
heart's  ease. 

He  was  roving  alone  through  the  gathering,  brooding 
about  his  Moorish  beauty,  when  two  angered  voices  arose 
suddenly  from  a  gaming-table  above  all  the  clamour  and 
chink  of  coin. 

"  I  tell  you,  M'sieu,  that  I  am  twenty  francs  short!  " 

"Stuff,  M'sieu!" 

"  Stuff  yourself,  M'sieu !  " 

"  You  shall  learn  whom  you  are  addressing,  M'sieu!  " 

"  I  am  dying  to  do  that,  M'sieu !  " 

"  I  am  Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro,  M'sieu." 

Upon  this  title  Tartarin,  much  excited,  cleft  the  throng 
and  placed  himself  in  the  foremost  rank,  proud  and  happy  to 
find  his  prince  again,  the  Montenegrin  noble  of  such  polite- 
ness whose  acquaintance  he  had  begun  on  board  of  the  mail 
steamer.  Unfortunately  the  title  of  Highness,  which  had  so 
dazzled  the  worthy  Tarasconian,  did  not  produce  the  slightest 
impression  upon  the  Chasseurs  officer  with  whom  the  noble 
had  his  dispute. 

"I  am  much  the  wiser!"  observed  the  military  gentle- 
man sneeringly;  and  turning  to  the  bystanders  he  added: 
"  '  Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro  ' — who  knows  any  such  a 
person?     Nobody!  " 

The  indignant  Tartarin  took  one  step  forward. 

"  Allow  me.  I  know  the  prance,"  said  he,  in  a  very  firm 
voice,  and  with  his  finest  Tarasconian  accent. 

The  light  cavalry  officer  eyed  him  hard  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  returned, — 

"Come,  that  is  good!  Just  you  two  share  the  twenty 
francs  lacking  between  you,  and  let  us  talk  no  more  on  the 
score." 

E423 


52  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

Whereupon  he  turned  his  back  upon  them  and  mixed  with 
the  crowd.  The  stormy  Tartarin  was  going  to  rush  after 
him,  but  the  prince  prevented  that. 

"  Let  him  go.     I  can  manage  my  own  affairs." 

Taking  the  interventionist  by  the  arm,  he  drew  him 
rapidly  out  of  doors.  When  they  were  upon  the  square, 
Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro  hfted  his  hat  ofif,  extended 
his  hand  to  our  hero,  and  as  he  but  dimly  remembered  his 
name,  he  began  in  a  vibrating  voice, — 

"  Monsieur  Barbarin " 

"  Tartarin!  "  prompted  the  other,  timidly. 

"Tartarin,  Barbarin,  no  matter!  Between  us  hence- 
forward it  is  a  league  of  life  and  death !  " 

The  Montenegrin  noble  shook  his  hand  with  fierce  energy. 
You  may  infer  that  the  Tarasconian  was  proud. 

*'  Prance,  prance  /  "  he  repeated  enthusiastically. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  subsequently  the  two  gentlemen 
were  installed  in  the  Platanes  Restaurant,  an  agreeable  late 
supper-house,  with  terraces  running  out  over  the  sea,  where, 
before  a  hearty  Russian  salad,  seconded  by  a  nice  Crescia 
wine,  they  renewed  the  friendship. 

You  cannot  imagine  any  one  more  bewitching  than  this 
Montenegrin  prince.  Slender,  fine,  with  crisp  hair  curled  by 
the  tongs,  shaved  "  a  week  under  "  and  pumice-stoned  on 
that,  bestarred  with  out-of-the-way  decorations,  he  had  the 
wily  eye,  the  fondling  gestures,  and  vaguely  the  accent  of  an 
Italian,  which  gave  him  an  air  of  Cardinal  Mazarin  without 
his  chin-tuft  and  moustaches.  He  was  deeply  versed  in  the 
Latin  tongues,  and  lugged  in  quotations  from  Tacitus, 
Horace,  and  Caesar's  Commentaries  at  every  opening. 

Of  an  old  noble  strain,  it  appeared  that  his  brothers  had 
had  him  exiled  at  the  age  of  ten,  on  account  of  his  liberal 
opinions,  since  which  time  he  had  roamed  the  world  for 
pleasure  and  instruction  as  a  philosophical  noble.  A  singular 
coincidence!  the  prince  had  spent  three  years  in  Tarascon; 
and  as  Tartarin  showed  amazement  at  never  having  met  him 
at  the  club  or  on  the  esplanade.  His  Highness  evasively  re- 
marked that  he  never  went  about.  Through  delicacy^  the 
Tarasconian  did  not  dare  to  question  further.  All  great 
existences  have  such  mysterious  nooks. 

To  sum  up,  this  Signer  Gregory  was  a  very  genial  aristo- 


Among  "  The  Turks  "  53 

crat.  Whilst  sipping  the  rosy  Crescia  juice  he  patiently- 
listened  to  Tartarin's  expatiating  on  his  lovely  Moor,  and  he 
even  promised  to  find  her  speedily,  as  he  had  full  knowledge 
of  the  native  ladies. 

They  drank  hard  and  lengthily  in  toasts  to  "  The  ladies  of 
Algiers  "  and  "  The  freedom  of  Montenegro!  " 

Outside,  upon  the  terrace,  heaved  the  sea,  and  its  rollers 
slapped  the  strand  in  the  darkness  with  much  the  sound  of 
wet  sails  flapping.  The  air  was  warm,  and  the  sky  full  of 
stars. 

In  the  plane-trees  a  nightingale  was  piping 

It  was  Tartarin  who  paid  the  hill. 


X 

"  TELL   ME    YOUR    FATHER'S    NAME,    AND    I    WILL   TELL 
YOU   THE   NAME   OF   THAT    FLOWER  " 

Princes  of  Montenegro  are  the  boys  to  put  up  the  game. 

On  the  morrow  early  after  this  evening  at  the  Platanes, 
Prince  Gregory  was  in  the  Tarasconian's  bedroom. 

"  Quick !  Dress  yourself  quickly !  Your  Moorish  beauty 
is  found.  Her  name  is  Baya.  She's  scarce  twenty — as 
.pretty  as  a  love,  and  already  a  widow." 

"A  widow!  What  a  slice  of  luck!"  joyfully  exclaimed 
Tartarin,  who  dreaded  Oriental  husbands. 

"  Ay,  but  woefully  closely  guarded  by  her  brother." 

"  Oh,  the  mischief!  " 

"  A  savage  chap  who  vends  pipes  in  the  Orleans  bazaar." 

Here  fell  a  silence. 

"A  fig  for  that!"  proceeded  the  prince;  "you  are  not 
the  man  to  be  daunted  by  such  a  trifle;  and,  anyhow,  this 
old  corsair  can  be  pacified,  I  daresay,  by  having  some  pipes 
bought  of  him.  But  be  quick !  On  with  your  courting  suit, 
you  lucky  dog!  " 

Pale  and  agitated,  with  his  heart  brimming  over  with 
love,  the  Tarasconian  leaped  out  of  his  couch,  and,  as  he 
hastily  buttoned  up  his  capacious  nether  garment,  wanted 
to  know  how  he  should  act. 


54 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


"  Write  straightway  to  the  lady  and  ask  for  a  tryst." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  she  knows  French?  "  queried  the 
Tarasconian  simpleton,  with  the  disappointed  mien  of  one 
who  had  believed  thoroughly  in  the  Orient. 

"  Not  one  word  of  it/'  rejoined  the  prince  imperturbably ; 
"  but  you  can  dictate  the  billet-doux,  and  I  will  translate  it 
bit  by  bit." 

"  0  prince,  how  kind  you  are !  " 

The  lover  began  striding  up  and  down  the  bedroom  in 
silent  meditation. 

Naturally  a  man  does  not  write  to  a  Moorish  girl  in  Algiers 
in  the  same  way  as  to  a  seamstress  of  Beaucaire.  It  was  a 
very  lucky  thing  that  our  hero  had  in  mind  his  numerous 
readings,  which  allowed  him,  by  amalgamating  the  Red 
Indian  eloquence  of  Gustave  Aimard's  Apaches  with  Lamar- 
tine's  rhetorical  flourishes  in  the  Voyage  en  Orient,  and  some 
reminiscences  of  the  Song  of  Songs,  to  compose  the  most 
Eastern  letter  that  you  could  expect  to  see.  It  opened 
with, — 

*'  Like  unto  the  ostrich  upon  the  sandy  waste  " — 
and  concluded  by, — 

"  Tell  me  your  father's  name,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  name 
of  that  flower." 

To  this  missive  the  romantic  Tartarin  would  have  much 
liked  to  join  an  emblematic  bouquet  of  flowers  in  the  Eastern 
fashion;  but  Prince  Gregory  thought  it  better  to  purchase 
some  pipes  at  the  brother's,  which  could  not  fail  to  soften 
his  wild  temper,  and  would  certainly  please  the  lady  a  very 
great  deal,  as  she  was  much  of  a  smoker. 

"  Let's  be  off  at  once  to  buy  them!  "  said  Tartarin,  full  of 
ardour. 

"No,  no!     Let  me  go  alone.     I  can  get  them  cheaper." 

"  Eh,  what?  Would  you  save  me  the  trouble ?  0  prince, 
prince,  you  do  me  proud !  " 

Quite  abashed,  the  good-hearted  fellow  offered  his  purse 
to  the  obliging  Montenegrin,  urging  him  to  overlook  nothing 
by  which  the  lady  would  be  gratified. 

Unfortunately  the  suit,  albeit  capitally  commenced,  did 
not  progress  as  rapidly  as  might  have  been  anticipated.  It 
appeared  that  the  Moorish  beauty  was  very  deeply  affected 
by  Tartarin's  eloquence,  and,  for  that  matter,  three-parts 


Among  "  The  Turks  "  55 

won  beforehand,  so  that  she  wished  nothing  better  than  to 
receive  him;  but  that  brother  of  hers  had  qualms,  and  to 
lull  them  it  was  necessary  to  buy  pipes  by  the  dozens;  nay, 
the  gross — well,  we  had  best  say  by  the  shipload  at  once. 

"  What  the  plague  can  Baya  do  with  all  these  pipes?  " 
poor  Tartarin  wanted  to  know  more  than  once;  but  he  paid 
the  bills  all  the  same,  and  without  niggardliness. 

At  length,  after  having  purchased  a  mountainous  stack  of 
pipes  and  poured  forth  lakes  of  Oriental  poesy,  an  interview 
was  arranged. 

I  have  no  need  to  tell  you  with  what  throbbings  of  the 
heart  the  Tarasconian  prepared  himself;  with  what  careful- 
ness he  trimmed,  brilliantined,  and  perfumed  his  rough  cap- 
popper's  beard,  and  how  he  did  not  forget — for  everything 
must  be  thought  of — to  slip  a  spiky  life-preserver  and  two 
or  three  six-shooters  into  his  pockets. 

The  ever-obliging  prince  was  coming  to  this  first  meeting 
in  the  office  of  interpreter. 

The  lady  dwelt  in  the  upper  part  of  the  town.  Before 
her  doorway  a  boy  Moor  of  fourteen  or  less  was  smoking 
cigarettes;  this  was  the  brother  in  question,  the  celebrated 
Ali.  On  seeing  the  pair  of  visitors  arrive,  he  gave  a  double 
knock  on  the  postern  gate  and  delicately  glided  away. 

The  door  opened.  A  negress  appeared,  who  conducted 
the  gentlemen,  without  uttermg  a  word,  across  the  narrow 
inner  courtyard  into  a  small  cool  room,  where  the  lady 
awaited  them,  reclining  on  a  low  ottoman.  At  first  glance 
she  appeared  smaller  and  stouter  than  the  Moorish  damsel 
met  in  the  omnibus  by  the  Tarasconian.  In  fact,  was  it 
really  the  same?  But  the  doubt  merely  flashed  through 
Tartarin's  brain  like  a  stroke  of  lightning. 

The  dame  was  so  pretty  thus,  with  her  feet  bare,  and 
plump  fingers,  fine  and  pink,  loaded  with  rings.  Under  her 
bodice  of  gilded  cloth  and  the  folds  of  her  flower-patterned 
dress  was  suggested  a  lovable  creature,  rather  blessed  materi- 
ally, rounded  everywhere,  and  nice  enough  to  eat.  The 
amber  mouthpiece  of  a  narghileh  smoked  at  her  lips,  and 
enveloped  her  wholly  in  a  halo  of  light-coloured  smoke. 

On  entering,  the  Tarasconian  laid  a  hand  on  his  heart 
and  bowed  as  Moorlike  as  possible,  whilst  rolling  his  large 
impassioned  eyes. 


56  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

Baya  gazed  on  him  for  a  moment  without  making  any 
answer;  but  then,  dropping  her  pipe-stem,  she  threw  her 
head  back,  hid  it  in  her  hands,  and  they  could  only  see  her 
white  neck  rippling  with  a  wild  laugh  like  a  bag  full  of  pearls. 


XI 

siDi  tart'ri  ben  tart'ri 

Should  you  ever  drop  into  the  coffee-houses  of  the  Algerian 
upper  town  after  dark,  even  at  this  day,  you  would  still  hear 
the  natives  chatting  among  themselves,  with  many  a  wink 
and  slight  laugh,  of  one  Sidi  Tart'ri  Ben  Tart'ri,  a  rich  and 
good-humoured  European,  who  dwelt,  a  few  years  back,  in 
that  neighbourhood,  with  a  buxom  witch  of  local  origin, 
named  Baya. 

This  Sidi  Tart'ri,  who  has  left  such  a  merry  memory 
around  the  Kasbah,  is  no  other  than  our  Tartarin,  as  will  be 
guessed. 

How  could  you  expect  things  otherwise.''  In  the  lives  of 
heroes,  of  saints,  too,  it  happens  the  same  way — there  are 
moments  of  blindness,  perturbation,  and  weakness.  The 
illustrious  Tarasconian  was  no  more  exempt  from  this  than 
another,  and  that  is  the  reason  during  two  months  that, 
oblivious  of  fame  and  lions,  he  revelled  in  Oriental  amorous- 
ness, and  dozed,  like  Hannibal  at  Capua,  in  the  delights  of 
Algiers  the  White. 

The  good  fellow  took  a  pretty  little  house  in  the  native 
style  in  the  heart  of  the  Arab  town,  with  inner  courtyard, 
banana-trees,  cool  verandahs,  and  fountains.  He  dwelt,  afar 
from  noise,  in  company  with  the  Moorish  charmer,  a  thorough 
woman  to  the  manner  born,  who  pulled  at  her  hubble-bubble 
all  day  when  she  was  not  eating. 

Stretched  out  on  a  divan  in  front  of  him,  Baya  would 
drone  him  monotonous  tunes  with  a  guitar  in  her  fist;  or 
else,  to  distract  her  lord  and  master,  favour  him  with  the 
Bee  Dance,  holding  a  hand-glass  up,  in  which  she  reflected 
her  white  teeth  and  the  faces  she  made. 

As  the  Esmeralda  did  not  know  a  word  of  French,  and 


Among  "  The  Turks  "  57 

fartarin  none  in  Arabic,  the  conversation  died  away  some- 
times, and  the  Tarasconian  had  plenty  of  leisure  to  do 
penance  for  the  gush  of  language  of  which  he  had  been  guilty 
in  the  shop  of  Bezuquet  the  chemist  or  that  of  Costecalde 
the  gunmaker. 

But  this  penance  was  not  devoid  of  charm,  for  he  felt  a 
kind  of  enjoyable  suUenness  in  dawdling  away  the  whole  day 
without  speaking,  and  in  listening  to  the  gurgling  of  the 
hookah,  the  strumming  of  the  guitar,  and  the  faint  splashing 
of  the  fountain  on  the  mosaic  pavement  of  the  yard. 

The  pipe,  the  bath,  and  caresses  filled  his  entire  life.  They 
seldom  went  out  of  doors.  Sometimes,  with  his  lady-love 
upon  a  pillion,  Sidi  Tart'ri  would  ride  upon  a  sturdy  mule 
to  eat  pomegranates  in  a  little  garden  he  had  purchased  in 
the  suburbs.  But  never,  without  exception,  did  he  go  down 
into  the  European  quarter.  This  kind  of  Algiers  appeared 
to  him  as  ugly  and  unbearable  as  a  barracks  at  home,  with 
its  Zouaves  in  revelry,  its  music-halls  crammed  with  officers, 
and  its  everlasting  clank  of  metal  sabre-sheaths  under  the 
arcades. 

The  sum  total  is,  that  our  Tarasconian  was  very  happy. 

Sancho-Tartarin  particularly,  being  very  sweet  upon 
Turkish  pastry,  declared  that  one  could  not  be  more  satisfied 
than  by  this  new  existence.  Quixote-Tartarin  had  some 
twinges  at  whiles  on  thinking  of  Tarascon  and  the  promises 
of  lion-skins;  but  this  remorse  did  not  last,  and  to  drive 
away  such  dampening  ideas  there  sufficed  one  glance  from 
Baya,  or  a  spoonful  of  those  diabolical  dizzying  and  odori- 
ferous sweetmeats  like  Circe's  brews. 

In  the  evening  Gregory  came  to  discourse  a  little  about  a 
free  Black  Mountain.  Of  indefatigable  obligingness,  this 
amiable  nobleman  filled  the  functions  of  an  interpreter  in 
the  household,  or  those  of  a  steward  at  a  pinch,  and  all  for 
nothing — for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  it.  Apart  from  him, 
Tartarin  received  none  but  "  Turks."  All  those  fierce- 
headed  pirates  who  had  given  him  such  frights  from  the 
backs  of  their  black  stalls  turned  out,  when  once  he  made 
their  acquaintance,  to  be  good  inoffensive  tradesmen,  em- 
broiderers, dealers  in  spice,  pipe-mouthpiece  turners — well- 
bred  fellows,  humble,  clever,  close,  and  first-class  hands  at 
homely  card  games.     Four  or  five  times  a  week  these  gentry 


S8 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


would  come  and  spend  the  evening  at  Sidi  Tart'ri's,  winning 
his  small  change^  eating  his  cates  and  dainties,  and  delicately 
retiring  on  the  stroke  of  ten  with  thanks  to  the  Prophet. 

Left  alone,  Sidi  Tart'ri  and  his  faithful  spouse  by  the 
broomstick  wedding  would  finish  the  evening  on  their  terrace, 
a  broad  white  roof  which  overlooked  the  city. 

All  around  them  a  thousand  of  other  such  white  flats, 
placid  beneath  the  moonshine,  were  descending  like  steps  to 
the  sea.     The  breeze  carried  up  tinkling  of  guitars. 

Suddenly,  like  a  shower  of  firework  stars,  a  full,  clear 
melody  would  be  softly  sprinkled  out  from  the  sky,  and  on 
the  minaret  of  the  neighbouring  mosque  a  handsome  muezzin 
would  appear,  his  blanched  form  outlined  on  the  deep  blue  of 
the  night,  as  he  chanted  the  glory  of  Allah  with  a  marvellous 
voice,  which  filled  the  horizon. 

Thereupon  Baya  would  let  go  her  guitar,  and  with  her 
large  eyes  turned  towards  the  crier,  seem  to  imbibe  the 
prayer  deliciously.  As  long  as  the  chant  endured  she  would 
remain  thrilled  there  in  ecstasy,  like  an  Oriental  saint.  The 
deeply  impressed  Tartarin  would  watch  her  pray,  and  con- 
clude that  it  must  be  a  splendid  and  powerful  creed  that 
could  cause  such  frenzies  of  faith. 

Tarascon,  veil  thy  face;  here  is  a  son  of  thine  on  the  point 
of  becoming  a  renegade ! 


XII 

THE   LATEST   INTELLIGENCE   FROM   TARASCON 

Parting  from  his  little  country  seat,  Sidi  Tart'ri  was  return- 
ing alone  on  his  mule  on  a  fine  afternoon,  when  the  sky  was 
blue  and  the  zephyrs  warm.  His  legs  were  kept  wide  apart 
by  ample  saddle-bags  of  esparto  cloth,  swelled  out  with 
cedrats  and  water-melons.  Lulled  by  the  ring  of  his  large 
stirrups,  and  rocking  his  body  to  the  swing  and  swaying  of 
the  beast,  the  good  fellow  was  thus  riding  through  a  charming 
landscape,  with  his  hands  folded  on  his  paunch,  three- 
quarters  gone,  through  heat,  in  a  comfortable  doze.  All  at 
once,  on  entering  the  town,  a  deafening  appeal  aroused  him. 


Among  "The  Turks"  59 

"  Ahoy !  What  a  monster  Fate  is !  Anybody'd  take  this 
for  Monsieur  Tartarin." 

On  this  name,  and  at  the  jolly  southern  accent,  the  Taras- 
conian  lifted  his  head,  and  perceived,  a  couple  of  steps  away, 
the  honest  tanned  visage  of  Captain  Barbassou,  master  of 
the  Zouave,  who  was  taking  his  absinthe  at  the  door  of  a 
little  coffee-house. 

"Hey!  Lord  love  you,  Barbassou!"  said  Tartarin, 
pulling  up  his  mule. 

Instead  of  continuing  the  dialogue,  Barbassou  stared  at 
him  for  a  space  ere  he  burst  into  a  peal  of  such  hilarity  that 
Sidi  Tart'ri  sat  back  dumbfounded  on  his  melons. 

"  What  a  stunning  turban,  my  poor  Monsieur  Tartarin ! 
Is  it  true,  what  they  say  of  your  having  turned  Turk?  How 
is  little  Baya?     Is  she  still  singing  '  Marco  la  Bella  '  ?  " 

"  Marco  la  Bella!  "  repeated  the  indignant  Tartarin.  I'll 
have  you  to  know,  captain,  that  the  person  you  mention  is 
an  honourable  Moorish  lady,  and  one  who  does  not  know  a 
word  of  French." 

"  Baya  does  not  know  French!  What  lunatic  asylum  do 
you  hail  from,  then?  " 

The  good  captain  broke  into  still  heartier  laughter;  but, 
seeing  the  chops  of  poor  Sidi  Tart'ri  fall,  he  changed  his 
course, 

"  Howsoever,  may  happen  it  is  not  the  same  lass.  Let's 
reckon  that  I  have  mixed  'em  up.  Still,  mark  you.  Monsieur 
Tartarin,  you  will  do  well,  nonetheless,  to  distrust  Algerian 
Moors  and  Montenegrin  princes." 

Tartarin  rose  in  the  stirrups,  making  a  wry  face. 

"  The  prince  is  my  friend,  captain." 

"  Come,  come,  don't  wax  wrathy.  Won't  you  have  some 
bitters  to  sweeten  you?  No?  Haven't  you  anything  to 
say  to  the  folks  at  home,  neither?  Well,  then,  a  pleasant 
journey.  By  the  way,  mate,  I  have  some  good  French 
'baccy  upon  me,  and  if  you  would  like  to  carry  away  a  few 
pipefuls,  you  have  only  to  take  some.  Take  it,  won't  you? 
It's  your  beastly  Oriental  'baccies  that  have  befogged  your 
brain." 

Upon  this  the  captain  went  back  to  his  absinthe,  whilst 
the  moody  Tartarin  trotted  slowly  on  the  road  to  his  little 
house.     Although  his  great  soul  refused  to  credit  anything, 


6o  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

Barbassou's  insinuations  had  vexed  him,  and  the  familiar 
adjurations  and  home  accent  had  awakened  vague  remorse. 
He  found  nobody  at  home,  Baya  having  gone  out  to  the 
bath.  The  negress  appeared  sinister  and  the  dwelHng 
saddening.  A  prey  to  inexpressible  melancholy,  he  went 
and  sat  down  by  the  fountain  to  load  a  pipe  with  Barbassou's 
tobacco.  It  was  wrapped  up  in  a  piece  of  the  Marseilles 
Semaphore  newspaper.  On  flattening  it  out,  the  name  of  his 
native  place  struck  his  eyes. 

"  Our  Tarascon  correspondent  writes  : — 

"  The  city  is  in  distress.  There  has  been  no  news  for  several  months 
from  Tartarin  the  lion-slayer,  who  set  off  to  hunt  the  great  feline 
tribe  in  Africa.  What  can  have  become  of  our  heroic  fellow-country- 
man? Those  hardly  dare  ask  who  know,  as  we  do,  how  hot-headed  he 
was,  and  what  boldness  and  thirst  for  adventures  were  his.  Has  he, 
like  many  others,  been  smothered  in  the  sands,  or  has  he  fallen  under 
the  murderous  fangs  of  one  of  those  monsters  of  the  Atlas  Range  of 
which  he  had  promised  the  skins  to  the  municipality?  What  a 
dreadful  state  of  uncertainty!  It  is  true  some  negro  traders,  come  to 
Beaucaire  Fair,  assert  having  met  in  the  middle  of  the  deserts  a 
European  whose  description  agreed  with  his;  he  was  proceeding  towards 
Timbuctoo.     May  Heaven  preserve  our  Tartarin !  " 

When  he  read  this,  the  son  of  Tarascon  reddened,  blanched, 
and  shuddered.  All  Tarascon  appeared  unto  him:  the 
club,  the  cap-poppers,  Costecalde's  green  arm-chair,  and, 
hovering  over  all  like  a  spread  eagle,  the  imposing  moustaches 
of  brave  Major  Bravida. 

At  seeing  himself  here,  as  he  was,  cowardly  lolling  on  a 
matj  whilst  his  friends  beheved  him  slaughtering  wild  beasts, 
Tartarin  of  Tarsacon  was  ashamed  of  himself,  and  could 
have  wept  had  he  not  been  a  hero. 

Suddenly  he  leaped  up  and  thundered, — 

"  The  lion,  the  lion!     Down  with  him!  " 

And  dashing  into  the  dusty  lumber-hole  where  mouldered 
the  shelter-tent,  the  medicine  chest,  the  potted  meats,  and 
the  gun-cases,  he  dragged  them  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
court. 

Sancho-Tartarin  was  no  more:  Quixote-Tartarin  occupied 
the  field  of  active  life. 

Only  the  time  to  inspect  his  armament  and  stores,  don  his 


Among  "  The  Turks  "  6i 

harness,  get  into  his  heavy  boots,  scribble  a  couple  of  words 
to  confide  Baya  to  the  prince,  and  slip  a  few  bank-notes 
sprinkled  with  tears  into  the  envelope,  and  then  the  daunt- 
less Tarasconian  rolled  away  in  the  stage-coach  on  the  Blidah 
road,  leaving  the  house  to  the  negress,  stupor-stricken  before 
the  pipe,  the  turban,  and  babooshes — all  the  Moslem  shell  of 
Sidi  Tart'ri  which  spawled  piteously  under  the  little  white 
trefoils  of  the  gallery. 


EPISODE   THE   THIRD 

AMONG  THE  LIONS 

I 

STAGE-COACHES    IN    EXILE 

Come  to  look  closely  at  the  vehicle,  it  was  an  old  stage-coach 
all  of  the  olden  time,  upholstered  in  faded  deep  blue  cloth, 
with  those  enormous  rough  woollen  balls  which,  after  a  few 
hours'  journey,  finally  establish  a  raw  spot  in  the  small  of 
your  back, 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  a  corner  of  the  inside,  where  he 
installed  himself  most  free-and-easily;  and,  preliminarily 
to  inspiring  the  rank  emanations  of  the  great  African  felines, 
the  hero  had  to  content  himself  with  that  homely  old  odour 
of  the  stage-coach,  oddly  composed  of  a  thousand  smells,  of 
man  and  woman,  horses  and  harness,  eatables  and  mildewed 
straw. 

There  was  a  little  of  everything  inside — a  Trappist  monk, 
some  Jew  merchants,  two  fast  ladies  going  to  join  their 
regiment,  the  Third  Hussars,  a  photographic  artist  from 
Orleansville,  and  so  on.  But,  however  charming  and  varied 
was  the  company,  the  Tarasconian  was  not  in  the  mood  for 
chatting;  he  remained  quite  thoughtful,  with  an  arm  in  the 
arm-rest  sling-strap  and  his  guns  between  his  knees.  All 
churned  up  his  wits — the  precipitate  departure,  Baya's  eyes 
of  jet,  the  terrible  chase  he  was  about  to  undertake,  to  say 
nothing  of  this  European  coach,  with  its  Noah's  Ark  aspect, 
rediscovered  in  the  heart  of  Africa,  vaguely  recalling  the 
Tarascon  of  his  youth,  with  its  races  in  the  suburbs,  jolly 
dinners  on  the  river-side — a  throng  of  memories,  in  short. 

Gradually  night  came  on.  The  guard  lit  up  the  lamps. 
The  rusty  diligence  danced  creakingly  on  its  old  springs ;  the 
horses  trotted  and  their  bells  jangled.     From  time  to  time 

62 


Among  the  Lions  63 

in  the  boot  arose  a  dreadful  clank  of  iron :  that  was  the  war 
material. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  nearly  overcome,  dwelt  a  moment 
scanning  the  fellow-passengers,  comically  shaken  by  the  jolts, 
and  dancing  before  him  like  the  shadows  in  galanty-shows, 
till  his  eyes  grew  cloudy  and  his  mind  befogged,  and  only 
vaguely  he  heard  the  wheels  grind  and  the  sides  of  the  con- 
veyance squeak  complainingly. 

Suddenly  a  voice  called  Tartarin  by  his  name,  the  voice 
of  an  old  fairy  godmother,  hoarse,  broken,  and  cracked. 

"  Monsieur  Tartarin!  "  three  times. 

"Who's  calling  me?" 

"  It's  I,  Monsieur  Tartarin.  Don't  you  recognise  me?  I 
am  the  old  stage-coach  who  used  to  do  the  road  betwixt  Nimes 
and  Tarascon  twenty  year  agone.  How  many  times  I  have 
carried  you  and  your  friends  when  you  went  to  shoot  at  caps 
over  Joncquieres  or  Bellegarde  way!  I  did  not  know  you 
again  at  the  first,  on  account  of  your  Turk's  cap  and  the  flesh 
you  have  accumulated;  but  as  soon  as  you  began  snoring— 
what  a  rascal  is  good-luck ! — I  twigged  you  straight  away." 

"  All  right,  that's  all  right  enough!  "  observed  the  Taras- 
conian,  a  shade  vexed;  but  softening,  he  added,  "  But  to  the 
point,  my  poor  old  girl;  whatever  did  you  come  out  here 
for?  " 

"  Pooh !  my  good  Monsieur  Tartarin,  I  assure  you  I  never 
came  of  my  own  free  will.  As  soon  as  the  Beaucaire  railway 
was  finished  I  was  considered  good  for  nought,  and  shipped 
away  into  Algeria.  And  I  am  not  the  only  one  either! 
Bless  you,  next  to  all  the  old  stage-coaches  of  France  have 
been  packed  off  like  me.  We  were  regarded  as  too  much 
the  conservative — '  the  slow-coaches  ' — d'ye  see,  and  now  we 
are  leading  a  dog's  life  here.  This  is  what  you  in  France 
call  the  Algerian  railways." 

Here  the  ancient  vehicle  heaved  a  long-drawn  sigh  before 
proceeding. 

"My  wheels  and  linchpin!  Monsieur  Tartarin,  how  I 
regret  my  lovely  Tarascon !  That  was  the  good  time  for  me, 
when  I  was  young !  You  ought  to  have  seen  me  starting  off 
in  the  morning,  washed  with  no  stint  of  water  and  all  a-shine, 
with  my  wheels  freshly  varnished,  my  lamps  blazing  like  a 
brace  of  suns,  and  my  boot  always  rubbed  up  with  oil!     It 


64 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


was  indeed  lovely  when  the  postillion  cracked  his  whip  to 
the  tune  of  '  Lagadigadeou,  the  Tarasque!  the  Tarasque!  ' 
and  the  guard,  his  horn  in  its  sling  and  laced  cap  cocked 
well  over  one  ear,  chucking  his  little  dog,  always  in  a  fury, 
upon  the  top,  climbed  up  himself  with  a  shout:  'Right — 
away ! ' 

"  Then  w'ould  my  four  horses  dash  off  to  the  medley  of 
bells,  barks,  and  horn-blasts,  and  the  windows  fly  open  for 
all  Tarascon  to  look  with  pride  upon  the  royal  mail  coach 
dashing  along  the  king's  highway. 

"  What  a  splendid  road  that  was,  ^Monsieur  Tartarin,  broad 
and  well  kept,  with  its  milestones,  its  little  heaps  of  road- 
metal  at  regular  distances,  and  its  prett}^  clumps  of  vines 
and  olive-trees  on  either  hand !  Then,  again,  the  roadside 
inns  so  close  together,  and  the  changes  of  horses  every  five 
minutes!  And  what  jolly,  honest  chaps  my  patrons  were! 
— village  mayors  and  parish  priests  going  up  to  Nimes  to 
see  their  prefect  or  bishop,  taffeta-weavers  returning  openly 
from  the  Mazet,  collegians  out  on  holiday  leave,  peasants  in 
worked  smock-frocks,  all  fresh  shaven  for  the  occasion  that 
morning;  and  up  above,  on  the  top,  you  sporting  gentlemen, 
always  in  high  spirits,  and  singing  each  your  own  family 
ballad  to  the  stars  as  you  came  back  in  the  dark. 

■'Deary  me!  it's  a  change  of  times  now!  Lord  knows 
what  rubbish  I  am  carting  here,  come  from  nobody  guesses 
where !  They  fill  me  with  small  deer,  these  negroes.  Bedouin 
Arabs,  swashbucklers,  adventurers  from  every  land,  and 
ragged  settlers  who  poison  me  with  their  pipes,  and  all 
jabbering  a  language  that  the  Tower  of  Babel  itself  could 
make  nothing  of!  And,  furthermore,  you  should  see  how 
they  treat  me — I  mean,  how  they  never  treat  me:  never  a 
brush  or  a  wash.  They  begrudge  me  grease  for  my  axles. 
Instead  of  my  good  fat  quiet  horses  of  other  days,  little  Arab 
ponies,  with  the  devil  in  their  frames,  who  fight  and  bite, 
caper  as  they  run  like  so  many  goats,  and  break  my  splatter- 
board  all  to  smithereens  with  their  lashing  out  behind. 
Ouch!  ouch!  there  they  are  at  it  again! 

■'And  such  roads!  Just  here  it  is  bearable,  because  we 
are  near  the  governmental  headquarters;  but  out  a  bit 
there's  nothing,  Monsieur — not  the  ghost  of  a  road  at  all. 
We  get  along  as  best  we  can  over  hill  and  dale,  over  dwarf 


Among  the  Lions  65 

palms  and  mastic-trees.  Ne'er  a  fixed  change  of  horses,  the 
stopping  being  at  the  whim  of  the  guard,  now  at  one  farm, 
again  at  another. 

"  Somewhiles  this  rogue  goes  a  couple  of  leagues  out  of 
the  way  to  have  a  glass  of  absinthe  or  champoreau  with  a 
chum.  After  which,  '  Crack  on,  postillion !  '  to  make  up  for 
the  lost  time.  Though  the  sun  be  broiling  and  the  dust 
scorching,  we  whip  on!  We  catch  in  the  scrub  and  spill 
over,  but  whip  on!  We  swim  rivers,  we  catch  cold,  we  get 
swamped,  we  drown,  but  whip !  whip !  whip !  Then  in  the 
evening,  streaming — a  nice  thing  for  my  age,  with  my 
rheumatics — I  have  to  sleep  in  the  open  air  of  some  caravan- 
serai yard,  open  to  all  the  winds.  In  the  dead  o'  night 
jackals  and  hyaenas  come  sniffing  of  my  body;  and  the 
marauders  who  don't  like  dews  get  into  my  compartment  to 
keep  warm. 

"  Such  is  the  life  I  lead,  my  poor  Monsieur  Tartarin,  and 
that  I  shall  lead  to  the  day  when — burnt  up  by  the  sun  and 
rotted  by  the  damp  nights  until  unable  to  do  anything  else 
— I  shall  fall  in  some  spot  of  bad  road,  where  the  Arabs  will 
boil  their  kouskous  with  the  bones  of  my  old  carcass  " 

"Blidah!  Blidah!"  called  out  the  guard  as  he  opened 
the  door. 


II 


A    LITTLE    GENTLEMAN   DROPS   IN   AND        DROPS    UPON 
TARTARIN 

Vaguely  through  the  mud-dimmed  glass  Tartarin  of  Taras- 
con  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  second-rate  but  pretty  town 
market-place,  regular  in  shape,  surrounded  by  colonnades 
and  planted  with  orange-trees,  in  the  midst  of  which  what 
seemed  toy  leaden  soldiers  were  going  through  the  morning 
exercise  in  the  clear  roseate  mist.  The  cafes  were  shedding 
their  shutters.  In  one  corner  there  was  a  vegetable  market. 
It  was  bewitching,  but  it  did  not  smack  of  lions  yet. 

"To  the  South!  farther  to  the  South!"  muttered  the 
good  old  desperado,  sinking  back  in  his  corner. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened.     A  puff  of  fresh  air 


66  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

rushed  in,  bearing  upon  its  wings,  in  the  perfume  of  the 
orange-blossoms,  a  httle  person  in  a  brown  frock-coat,  old 
and  dry,  wrinkled  and  formal,  his  face  no  bigger  than  your 
fist,  his  neckcloth  of  black  silk  five  fingers  wide,  a  notary's 
letter-case,  and  umbrella — the  very  picture  of  a  village 
solicitor. 

On  perceiving  the  Tarasconian's  warlike  equipment,  the 
little  gentleman,  who  was  seated  over  agranst  him,  appeared 
excessively  surprised,  and  set  to  studying  him  with  burden- 
some persistency. 

The  horses  were  taken  out  and  the  fresh  ones  put  in, 
whereupon  the  coach  started  off  again.  The  little  weasel 
still  gazed  at  Tartarin,  who  in  the  end  took  snuff  at  it. 

"Does  this  astonish  you?"  he  demanded,  staring  the 
little  gentleman  full  in  the  face  in  his  turn. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  it  only  annoys  me,"  responded  the  other, 
very  tranquilly. 

And  the  fact  is,  that,  with  his  shelter-tent,  revolvers,  pair 
of  guns  in  their  cases,  and  hunting-knife,  not  to  speak  of  his 
natural  corpulence,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  did  take  up  a  lot 
of  room. 

The  little  gentleman's  reply  angered  him. 

"  Do  you  by  any  chance  fancy  that  I  am  going  lion- 
hunting  with  your  umbrella?  "  queried  the  great  man 
haughtily. 

The  little  man  looked  at  his  umbrella,  smiled  blandly,  and 
still  with  the  same  lack  of  emotion,  inquired, — 

"  Oho,  then  you  are  Monsieur  " 

"  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  lion-killer!  " 

In  uttering  these  words  the  dauntless  son  of  Tarascon 
shook  the  blue  tassel  of  his  fez  like  a  mane. 

Through  the  vehicle  was  a  spell  of  stupefaction. 

The  Trappist  brother  crossed  himself,  the  dubious  women 
uttered  little  screams  of  affright,  and  the  Orleansville  photo- 
grapher bent  over  towards  the  lion-slayer,  already  cherishing 
the  unequalled  honour  of  taking  his  likeness. 

The  little  gentleman,  though,  was  not  awed. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  killed  many  lions, 
Monsieur  Tartarin?  "  he  asked,  very  quietly. 

The  Tarasconian  received  his  charge  in  the  handsomest 
manner. 


Among  the  Lions  67 

"  Have  I  killed  many,  Monsieur?  I  only  wish  you  had  as 
many  hairs  on  your  head  as  I  have  killed  lions." 

All  the  coach  laughed  on  observing  three  yellow  bristles 
standing  up  on  the  little  gentleman's  skull. 

In  his  turn,  the  Orleansville  photographer  struck  in, — 

"  Yours  must  be  a  terrible  profession,  Monsieur  Tartarin. 
You  must  pass  some  ugly  moments  sometimes.  I  have 
heard  that  poor  Monsieur  Bombonnel  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  panther-killer,"  said  Tartarin,  rather 
disdainfully. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  be  acquainted  with  him?  "  inquired 
the  insignificant  person. 

"Eh!  of  course  I  Know  him?  Why,  we  have  been  out 
on  the  hunt  over  twenty  times  together." 

The  little  gentleman  smiled. 

"So  you  also  hunt  panthers,  Monsieur  Tartarin?"  he 
asked. 

"  Sometimes,  just  for  pastime,"  said  the  fiery  Tarasconian. 
"  But,"  he  added,  as  he  tossed  his  head  with  a  heroic  move- 
ment that  inflamed  the  heart  of  the  two  sweethearts  of  the 
regiment,  "  that's  not  worth  lion-hunting." 

"  When  all's  said  and  done,"  ventured  the  photographer, 
"  a  panther  is  nothing  but  a  big  cat." 

"  Right  you  are!  "  said  Tartarin,  not  sorry  to  abate  the 
celebrated  Bombonnel's  glory  a  little,  particularly  in  the 
presence  of  ladies. 

Here  the  coach  stopped.  The  conductor  came  to  open 
the  door,  and  addressed  the  insignficant  little  gentleman 
most  respectfully,  saying, — 

"  We  have  arrived,  Monsieur." 

The  little  gentleman  got  up,  stepped  out,  and  said,  before 
the  door  was  closed  again, — 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  give  you  a  bit  of  advice,  Monsieur 
Tartarin?  " 

"What  is  it.  Monsieur?  " 

"  Faith !  you  wear  the  look  of  a  good  sort  of  fellow,  so  I 
would,  rather  than  not,  let  you  have  it.  Get  you  back 
quickly  to  Tarascon,  Monsieur  Tartarin,  for  you  are  wasting 
your  time  here.  There  do  remain  a  few  panthers  in  the 
colony,  but,  out  upon  the  big  cats !  they  are  too  small  game 
for  you.    As  for  lion-hunting,  that's  all  over.      There  are 

F43J 


68  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

none  left  in  Algeria,  my  friend  Chassaing  having  lately 
knocked  over  the  last." 

Upon  which  the  little  gentleman  saluted,  closed  the  door, 
and  trotted  away  chuckling,  with  his  document-wallet  and 
umbrella. 

"  Guard,"  asked  Tartarin,  screwing  up  his  face  contemp- 
tuously, "  who  under  the  sun  is  that  poor  little  mannikin?  " 

"  What !  don't  you  know  him  ?  Why,  that  there's 
Monsieur  Bombonnel!  " 


III 

A   MONASTERY    OF   LIONS 

At  Milianah,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  alighted,  leaving  the 
stage-coach  to  continue  its  way  towards  the  South. 

Two  days'  rough  jolting,  two  nights  spent  with  eyes  open  to 
spy  out  of  window  if  there  were  not  discoverable  the  dread 
figure  of  a  lion  in  the  fields  beyond  the  road — so  much  sleep- 
lessness well  deserved  some  hours'  repose.  Besides,  if  we 
must  tell  everything,  since  his  misadventure  with  Bombonnel, 
the  outspoken  Tartarin  felt  ill  at  ease,  notwithstanding  his 
weapons,  his  terrifying  visage,  and  his  red  cap,  before  the 
Orleansville  photographer  and  the  two  ladies  fond  of  the 
militar}'. 

So  he  proceeded  through  the  broad  streets  of  IVIilianah,  full 
of  fine  trees  and  fountains;  but  whilst  looking  up  a  suitable 
hotel,  the  poor  fellow  could  not  help  musing  over  Bom- 
bonnel's  words.  Suppose  they  were  true!  Suppose  there 
were  no  more  lions  in  Algeria?  What  would  be  the  good 
then  of  so  much  running  about  and  fatigue? 

Suddenly,  at  the  turn  of  a  street  our  hero  found  himself 
face  to  face  with — with  what?  Guess!  "A  donkey,  of 
course!"  A  donkey?  A  splendid  lion  this  time,  waiting 
before  a  coffee-house  door,  royally  sitting  up  on  his  hind- 
quarters, with  his  tawny  mane  gleaming  in  the  sun. 

"  What  possessed  them  to  tell  me  that  there  were  no  more 
of  them?  "  exclaimed  the  Tarasconian,  as  he  made  a  back- 
ward jump. 


Among  the  Lions  69 

On  hearing  this  outcry  the  lion  lowered  his  head,  and  taking 
up  in  his  mouth  a  wooden  bowl  that  was  before  him  on  the 
footway,  humbly  held  it  out  towards  Tartarin,  who  was 
immovable  with  stupefaction.  A  passing  Arab  tossed  a 
copper  into  the  bowl,  and  the  lion  wagged  his  tail.  There- 
upon Tartarin  understood  it  all.  He  saw  what  emotion  had 
prevented  him  previously  perceiving:  that  the  crowd  was 
gathered  around  a  poor  tame  blind  lion,  and  that  two  stalwart 
negroes,  armed  with  staves,  were  marching  him  through  the 
town  as  a  Savoyard  does  a  marmot. 

The  blood  of  Tarascon  boiled  over  at  once. 

"  Wretches  that  you  are !  "  he  roared  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
"  thus  to  debase  such  noble  beasts !  " 

Springing  to  the  lion,  he  wrenched  the  loathsome  bowl 
from  between  his  royal  jaws.  The  two  Africans,  believing 
they  had  a  thief  to  contend  with,  rushed  upon  the  foreigner 
with  uplifted  cudgels.  There  was  a  dreadful  conflict:  the 
blackamoors  smiting,  the  women  screaming,  and  the 
youngsters  laughing.  An  old  Jew  cobbler  bleated  out  of  the 
hollow  of  his  stall,  "  Dake  him  to  the  shustish  of  the  beace !  " 
The  lion  himself,  in  his  dark  state,  tried  to  roar  as  his  hapless 
champion,  after  a  desperate  struggle,  rolled  on  the  ground 
among  the  spilt  pence  and  the  sweepings. 

At  this  juncture  a  man  cleft  the  throng,  made  the  negroes 
stand  back  with  a  word,  and  the  women  and  urchins  with 
a  wave  of  the  hand,  lifted  up  Tartarin,  brushed  him  down, 
shook  him  into  shape,  and  sat  him  breathless  upon  a  comer- 
post. 

"  What,  prance,  is  it  you  ?  "  said  the  good  Tartarin,  rubbing 
his  ribs. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  I,  my  valiant  friend.  As  soon  as  your 
letter  was  received,  I  entrusted  Baya  to  her  brother,  hired  a 
postchaise,  flew  fifty  leagues  as  fast  as  a  horse  could  go,  and 
here  I  am,  just  in  time  to  snatch  you  from  the  brutality  of 
these  ruffians.  What  have  you  done,  in  the  name  of  just 
Heaven,  to  bring  this  ugly  trouble  upon  you?  " 

"  What  done,  prince  ?  It  was  too  much  for  me  to  see  this 
unfortunate  lion  with  a  begging-bowl  in  his  mouth,  humiliated, 
conquered,  buffeted  about,  set  up  as  a  laughing-stock  to  all 
this  Moslem  rabble  " 

"  But  you  are  wrong,  my  noble  friend.     On  the  contrary. 


7©  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

this  lion  is  an  object  of  respect  and  adoration.  This  is  a 
sacred  beast  who  belongs  to  a  great  monastery  of  lions, 
founded  three  hundred  years  ago  by  Mahomet  Ben  Aouda,  a 
kind  of  fierce  and  forbidding  La  Trappe,  full  of  roarings  and 
wild-beastly  odours,  where  strange  monks  rear  and  feed  lions 
by  hundreds,  and  send  them  out  all  over  Northern  Africa, 
accompanied  by  begging  brothers.  The  alms  they  receive 
serve  for  the  maintenance  of  the  monastery  and  its  mosques ; 
and  the  two  negroes  showed  so  much  displeasure  just  now 
because  it  was  their  conviction  that  the  lion  under  their 
charge  would  forthwith  devour  them  if  a  single  penny  of  their 
collection  were  lost  or  stolen  through  any  fault  of  theirs." 

On  hearing  this  incredible  and  yet  veracious  story  Tartarin 
of  Tarascon  was  delighted,  and  sniffed  the  air  noisily. 

"  What  pleases  me  in  this,"  he  remarked,  as  the  summing 
up  of  his  opinion,  "  is  that,  whether  Monsieur  Bombonnel 
likes  it  or  not,  there  are  still  lions  in  Algeria  " 

"  I  should  think  there  were!  "  ejaculated  the  prince  enthu- 
siastically. "  We  will  start  to-morrow  beating  up  the  ShellifT 
Plain,  and  you  will  see  lions  enough !  " 

"  What,  prince !  have  you  an  intention  to  go  a-hunting, 
too?" 

"  Of  course !  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  leave  you  to 
march  by  yourself  into  the  heart  of  Africa,  in  the  midst  of 
ferocious  tribes  of  whose  languages  and  usages  you  are 
ignorant!  No,  no,  illustrious  Tartarin,  I  shall  quit  you  no 
more.     Go  where  you  will,  I  shall  make  one  of  the  party." 

"  O  prance  1  prance  1  " 

The  beaming  Tartarin  hugged  the  devoted  Gregory  to  his 
breast  at  the  proud  thought  of  his  going  to  have  a  foreign 
prince  to  accompany  him  in  his  hunting,  after  the  example  of 
Jules  Gerard,  Bombonnel,  and  other  famous  lion-slayers. 


Among  the  Lions  71 


IV 

THE   CARAVAN   ON   THE   MARCH 

Leaving  Milianah  at  the  earliest  hour  next  morning,  the 
intrepid  Tartarin  and  the  no  less  intrepid  Prince  Gregory 
descended  towards  the  Shelliff  Plain  through  a  delightful 
gorge  shaded  with  jessamine,  carouba,  tuyas,  and  wild  olive- 
trees,  between  hedges  of  little  native  gardens  and  thousands 
of  merry,  lively  rills  which  scampered  down  from  rock  to 
rock  with  a  singing  splash — a  bit  of  landscape  meet  for  the 
Lebanon. 

As  much  loaded  with  arms  as  the  great  Tartarin,  Prince 
Gregory  had,  over  and  above  that,  donned  a  queer  but 
magnificent  military  cap,  all  covered  with  gold  lace  and  a 
trimming  of  oak-leaves  in  silver  cord,  which  gave  His  High- 
ness the  aspect  of  a  Mexican  general  or  a  railway  station- 
master  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube. 

This  plague  of  a  cap  much  puzzled  the  beholder;  and  as 
he  timidly  craved  some  explanation,  the  prince  gravely 
answered, — 

"  It  is  a  kind  of  headgear  indispensable  for  travel  in 
Algeria." 

Whilst  brightening  up  the  peak  with  a  sweep  of  his  sleeve, 
he  instructed  his  simple  companion  in  the  important  part 
which  the  military  cap  plays  in  the  French  connection  with 
the  Arabs,  and  the  terror  this  article  of  army  insignia  alone 
has  the  privilege  of  inspiring,  so  that  the  Civil  Service  has 
been  obliged  to  put  all  its  employes  in  caps,  from  the  extra- 
copyist  to  the  receiver-general.  To  govern  Algeria  (the 
prince  is  still  speaking)  there  is  no  need  of  a  strong  head,  or 
even  of  any  head  at  all.  A  military  cap  does  it  alone,  if 
showy  and  belaced,  and  shining  at  the  top  of  a  non-human 
pole,  like  Gessler's. 

Thus  chatting  and  philosophising,  the  caravan  proceeded. 
The  barefooted  porters  leaped  from  rock  to  rock  with  ape- 
like screams.  The  gun-cases  clanked,  and  the  guns  them- 
selves flashed.  The  natives  who  were  passing,  salaamed  to 
the  ground  before  the  magic  cap.     Up  above,  on  the  ramparts 


72  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

of  Milianah,  the  head  of  the  Arab  Department,  who  was  out 
for  an  airing  with  his  wife,  hearing  these  unusual  noises,  and 
seeing  the  weapons  gleam  between  the  branches,  fancied 
there  was  a  revolt,  and  ordered  the  drawbridge  to  be  raised, 
the  general  alarm  to  be  sounded,  and  the  whole  town  put 
under  a  state  of  siege. 

A  capital  commencement  for  the  caravan ! 

Unfortunately,  before  the  day  ended,  things  went  wrong. 
Of  the  black  luggage-bearers,  one  was  doubled  up  with 
atrocious  colics  from  having  eaten  the  diachylon  out  of  the 
medicine-chest ;  another  fell  on  the  roadside  dead  drunk  with 
camphorated  brandy;  the  third,  carrier  of  the  travelling- 
album,  deceived  by  the  gilding  on  the  clasps  into  the  per- 
suasion that  he  was  flying  with  the  treasures  of  Mecca,  ran 
off  into  the  Zaccar  on  his  best  legs. 

This  required  consideration.  The  caravan  halted,  and 
held  a  council  in  the  broken  shadow  of  an  old  fig-tree. 

"  It's  my  advice  that  we  turn  up  negro  porters  from  this 
evening  forward,"  said  the  prince,  trying  without  success  to 
melt  f>  cake  of  compressed  meat  in  an  improved  patent  triple- 
bottomed  saucepan.  "  There  is,  haply,  an  Arab  trader 
quite  near  here.  The  best  thing  to  do  is  to  stop  there,  and 
buy  some  donkeys." 

"No,  no;  no  donkeys,"  quickly  interrupted  Tartarin, 
becoming  quite  red  at  memory  of  Noiraud.  "  How  can  you 
expect,"  he  added,  hypocrite  that  he  was,  "  that  such  little 
beasts  could  carry  all  our  apparatus?  " 

The  prince  smiled. 

"  You  are  making  a  mistake,  my  illustrious  friend.  How- 
ever weakly  and  meagre  the  Algerian  bourriquot  may  appear 
to  you,  he  has  solid  loins.  He  must  have  them  so  to  support 
all  that  he  does.  Just  ask  the  Arabs.  Hark  to  how  they 
explain  the  French  colonial  organisation.  '  On  the  top,' 
they  say,  '  is  Mossoo,  the  Governor,  with  a  heavy  club  to  rap 
the  staff;  the  staff,  for  revenge,  canes  the  soldier;  the  soldier 
clubs  the  settler,  and  he  hammers  the  Arab;  the  Arab  smites 
the  negro,  the  negro  beats  the  Jew,  and  he  takes  it  out  of 
the  donkey.  The  poor  bourriquot,  having  nobody  to  be- 
labour, arches  up  his  back  and  bears  it  all.'  You  see  clearly 
now  that  he  can  bear  your  boxes." 

"  All  the  same,"  remonstrated  Tartarin,  "  it  strikes  me 


Among  the  Lions  'ji 

that  jackasses  will  not  chime  in  nicely  with  the  effect  of  our 
caravan.  I  want  something  more  Oriental.  For  instance. 
if  we  could  only  get  a  camel  " 

■'  As  many  as  you  like,"  said  His  Highness;  and  oflf  they 
started  for  the  Arab  mart. 

It  was  held  a  few  miles  away,  on  the  banks  of  the  Shelliff. 
There  were  five  or  six  thousand  Arabs  in  tatters  here,  grovel- 
ling in  the  sunshine  and  noisily  trafficking,  amid  jars  of  black 
olives,  pots  of  honey,  bags  of  spices,  and  great  heaps  of 
cigars;  huge  fires  were  roasting  whole  sheep,  basted  with 
butter;  in  open  air  slaughter-houses  stark  naked  negroes, 
with  ruddy  arms  and  their  feet  in  gore,  were  cutting  up  kids 
hanging  from  crosspoles,  with  small  knives. 

In  one  corner,  under  a  tent  patched  with  a  thousand 
colours,  a  Moorish  clerk  of  the  market  in  spectacles  scrawled 
in  a  large  book.  Here  was  a  cluster  of  men  shouting  with 
rage:  it  was  a  spinning-jenny  game,  set  on  a  corn-measure, 
and  Kabyles  were  ready  to  cut  one  another's  throats  over  it. 
Yonder  were  laughs  and  contortions  of  delight:  it  was  a 
Jew  trader  on  a  mule  drowning  in  the  Shelliff.  Then  there 
were  dogs,  scorpions,  ravens,  and  fiies — rather  fiies  than 
anything  else. 

But  a  plentiful  lack  of  camels  abounded.  They  finally 
unearthed  one,  though,  of  which  the  M'zabites  were  trying 
to  get  rid — the  real  ship  of  the  desert,  the  classical,  standard 
camel,  bald,  woe-begone,  with  a  long  Bedouin  head,  and  its 
hump,  become  limp  in  consequence  of  unduly  long  fasts, 
hanging  melancholically  on  one  side. 

Tartarin  considered  it  so  handsome  that  he  wanted  the 
entire  party  to  get  upon  it.     Still  his  Oriental  craze ! 

The  beast  knelt  down  for  them  to  strap  on  the  boxes. 

The  prince  enthroned  himself  on  the  animal's  neck.  For 
the  sake  of  the  greater  majesty,  Tartarin  got  them  to  hoist 
him  on  the  top  of  the  hump  between  two  boxes,  where, 
proud,  and  cosily  settled  down,  he  saluted  the  whole  market 
with  a  lofty  wave  of  the  hand,  and  gave  the  signal  of 
departure. 

Thunderation !  if  the  people  of  Tarascon  could  only  have 
seen  him ! 

The  camel  rose,  straightened  up  its  long  knotty  legs,  and 
stepped  out. 


74  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

Oh,  stupor!  At  the  end  of  a  few  strides  Tartarin  felt  he 
was  losing  colour,  and  the  heroic  Chechia  assumed  one  by  one 
its  former  positions  in  the  days  of  sailing  in  the  Zouave. 
This  devil's  own  camel  pitched  and  tossed  like  a  frigate. 

"  Prance  1  prance  I  "  gasped  Tartarin,  pallid  as  a  ghost, 
as  he  clung  to  the  dry  tuft  of  the  hump,  "  prance,  let's  go 
down.  I  find — I  feel  that  I  m — m — must  get  off,  or  I  shall 
disgrace  France." 

A  deal  of  good  that  talk  was — the  camel  wds  on  the  go, 
and  nothing  could  stop  it.  Behind  it  raced  four  thousand 
barefooted  Arabs,  waving  their  hands  and  laughing  like  mad, 
so  that  they  made  six  hundred  thousand  white  teeth  glitter 
in  the  sun. 

The  great  man  of  Tarascon  had  to  resign  himself  to 
circumstances.  He  sadly  collapsed  on  the  hump,  where  the 
fez  took  all  the  positions  it  fancied,  and  France  was  disgraced. 


THE  NIGHT-WATCH   IN   A    POISON-TREE   GROVE 

Swv^ETLY  picturesque  as  was  their  new  steed,  our  lion- 
hunters  had  to  give  it  up,  purely  out  of  consideration  for 
the  red  cap,  of  course.  So  they  continued  the  journey  on 
foot  as  before,  the  caravan  tranquilly  proceeding  southwardly 
by  short  stages,  the  Tarasconian  in  the  van,  the  Montenegrin 
in  the  rear,  and  the  camel,  with  the  weapons  in  their  cases, 
in  the  ranks. 

The  expedition  lasted  nearly  a  month. 

During  that  seeking  for  lions  which  he  never  found,  the 
dreadful  Tartarin  roamed  from  doiiar  to  doiiar  on  the  immense 
plain  of  the  Shelliff,  through  the  odd  but  formidable  French 
Algeria,  where  the  old  Oriental  perfumes  are  complicated  by 
a  strong  blend  of  absinthe  and  the  barracks,  Abraham  and 
"  the  Zouzou  "  mingled,  something  fairy-tale-like  and  simply 
burlesque,  like  a  page  of  the  Old  Testament  related  in  the 
accents  of  the  barrack-room. 

A  curious  sight  for  those  who  have  eyes  that  can  see. 


Among  the  Lions  75 

A  wild  and  corrupted  people  whom  we  are  civilising  by 
teaching  them  our  vices.  The  ferocious  and  uncontrolled 
authority  of  grotesque  bashaws,  who  gravely  use  their  grand 
cordons  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  as  handkerchiefs,  and  for  a 
mere  yea  or  nay  order  a  man  to  be  bastinadoed.  It  is  the 
justice  of  the  conscienceless,  bespectacled  cadis  under  the 
palm-tree,  Mawworms  of  the  Koran  and  Law,  who  dream 
languidly  of  promotion  and  sell  their  decrees,  as  Esau  did 
his  birthright,  for  a  dish  of  lentils  or  sweetened  kouskous. 
Drunken  and  libertine  cadis  are  they,  formerly  servants  to 
some  General  Yusuf  or  the  like,  who  get  intoxicated  on 
champagne,  along  with  laundresses  from  Port  Mahon,  and 
fatten  on  roast  mutton,  whilst  before  their  tents  the  whole 
tribe  waste  away  with  hunger,  and  fight  with  the  Salukis 
for  the  bones  of  the  lordly  feast. 

All  around  spread  the  plains  in  waste,  burnt  grass,  leafless 
shrubs,  thickets  of  cactus  and  mastic — "  the  Granary  of 
France !  " — a  granary  void  of  grain,  alas !  and  rich  alone  in 
vermin  and  jackals.  Abandoned  camps,  frightened  tribes 
fleeing  from  them  and  famine,  they  know  not  whither,  and 
strewing  the  road  with  corpses.  At  long  intervals  French 
villages,  with  the  dwellings  in  ruins,  the  fields  unfilled,  the 
maddened  locusts  gnawing  even  the  window-blinds,  and  all 
the  settlers  in  the  drinking-places,  absorbing  absinthe  and 
discussing  projects  of  reform  and  the  Constitution. 

This  is  what  Tartarin  might  have  seen  had  he  given  him- 
self the  trouble;  but,  wrapped  up  entirely  in  his  leonine- 
hunger,  the  son  of  Tarascon  went  straight  on,  looking  to 
neither  right  nor  left,  his  eyes  steadfastly  fixed  on  the 
imaginary  monsters  which  never  really  appeared. 

As  the  shelter-tent  was  stubborn  in  not  unfolding,  and  the 
compressed  meat-cakes  would  not  dissolve,  the  caravan  was 
obliged  to  stop,  morn  and  eve,  at  tribal  camps.  Every- 
where, thanks  to  the  gorgeous  cap  of  Prince  Gregory,  our 
hunters  were  welcomed  with  open  arms.  They  lodged  in 
the  aghas'  odd  palaces,  large  white  windowless  farmhouses, 
where  they  found,  pell-mell,  narghilehs  and  mahogany 
furniture,  Smyrna  carpets  and  moderator  lamps,  cedar  coffers 
full  of  Turkish  sequins,  and  French  statuette-decked  clocks 
in  the  Louis  Philippe  style. 

Everywhere,  too,  Tartarin  was  given  splendrous  galas, 


76  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

diffas,  and  fantasias,  which^  being  interpreted^  mean  feasts 
and  circuses.  In  his  honour  whole  goutns  blazed  away 
powder^  and  floated  their  burnouses  in  the  sun.  When  the 
powder  was  burnt,  the  agha  would  come  and  hand  in  his 
bill.     This  is  what  is  called  Arab  hospitality. 

But  always  no  lions,  no  more  than  on  London  Bridge. 

Nevertheless,  the  Tarasconian  did  not  grow  disheartened. 
Ever  bravely  diving  more  deeply  into  the  South,  he  spent 
the  days  in  beating  up  the  thickets,  probing  the  dwarf-palms 
with  the  muzzle  of  his  rifle,  and  saying,  "  Boh!  "  to  every 
bush.  And  every  evening,  before  lying  down,  he  went  into 
ambush  for  two  or  three  hours.  Useless  trouble,  however, 
for  the  lion  did  not  show  himself. 

One  evening,  though,  going  on  six  o'clock,  as  the  caravan 
scrambled  through  a  violet-hued  mastic-grove,  where  fat 
quails  tumbled  about  in  the  grass,  drowsy  through  the  heat, 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  fancied  he  heard — though  afar  and 
very  vague,  and  thinned  down  by  the  breeze — that  wondrous 
roaring  to  which  he  had  so  often  listened  by  Mitaine's 
Menagerie  at  home. 

At  first  the  hero  feared  he  was  dreaming;  but  in  an  instant 
further  the  roaring  recommenced  more  distinct,  although  yet 
remote;  and  this  time  the  camel's  hump  shivered  in  terror, 
and  made  the  tinned  meats  and  arms  in  the  cases  rattle, 
whilst  all  the  dogs  in  the  camps  were  heard  howling  in  every 
corner  of  the  horizon. 

Beyond  doubt  this  was  the  lion. 

Quick,  quick!  to  the  ambush.  There  was  not  a  minute 
to  lose. 

Near  at  hand  there  happened  to  be  an  old  marabout's,  or 
saint's,  tomb,  with  a  white  cupola,  and  the  defunct's  large 
yellow  slippers  placed  in  a  niche  over  the  door,  and  a  mass 
of  odd  offerings— hems  of  blankets,  gold  thread,  red  hair — 
hung  on  the  wall. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  left  his  prince  and  his  camel  and 
went  in  search  of  a  good  spot  for  lying  in  wait.  Prince 
Gregory  wanted  to  follow  him,  but  the  Tarasconian  refused, 
bent  on  confronting  Leo  alone.  But  still  he  besought  His 
Highness  not  to  go  too  far  away,  and,  as  a  measure  of  fore- 
sight, he  entrusted  him  with  his  pocket-book,  a  good-sized 
one,  full  of  precious  papers  and  bank-notes,  which  he  feared 


Among  the  Lions  77 

would  get  torn  by  the  lion's  claws.  This  done,  our  hero 
looked  up  a  good  place. 

A  hundred  paces  in  front  of  the  temple  a  little  clump  of 
rose-laurel  shook  in  the  twilight  haze  on  the  edge  of  a  rivulet 
all  but  dried  up.  There  it  was  that  Tartarin  went  and 
ensconced  himself,  one  knee  on  the  ground,  according  to  the 
regular  rule,  his  rifle  in  his  hand,  and  his  huge  hunting-knife 
stuck  boldly  before  him  in  the  sandy  bank. 

Night  fell. 

The  rosy  tint  of  nature  changed  into  violet,  and  then  into 
dark  blue.  A  petty  pool  of  clear  water  gleamed  like  a  hand- 
glass over  the  river-pebbles;  this  was  the  watering-place  of 
the  wild  animals. 

On  the  other  slope  the  whitish  trail  was  dimly  to  be 
discerned  which  their  heavy  paws  had  traced  in  the  brush — 
a  mysterious  path  which  made  one's  flesh  creep.  Join  to 
this  sensation  that  from  the  vague  swarming  sound  in 
African  forests,  the  swishing  of  branches,  the  velvety  pads 
of  roving  creatures,  the  jackal's  shrill  yelp,  and  up  in  the 
sky,  two  or  three  hundred  feet  aloft,  vast  flocks  of  cranes 
passing  on  with  screams  like  poor  little  children  having  their 
weasands  slit.  You  will  own  that  there  were  grounds  for  a 
man  being  moved. 

Tartarin  was  so,  and  even  more  than  that,  for  the  poor 
fellow's  teeth  chattered,  and  on  the  cross-bar  of  his  hunting- 
knife,  planted  upright  in  the  bank,  as  we  repeat,  his  rifle- 
barrel  rattled  like  a  pair  of  castanets.  Do  not  ask  too  much 
of  a  man !  There  are  times  when  one  is  not  in  the  mood ; 
and,  moreover,  w^here  would  be  the  merit  if  heroes  were 
never  afraid  ? 

Well,  yes,  Tartarin  was  afraid,  and  all  the  time,  too,  for 
the  matter  of  that.  Nevertheless,  he  held  out  for  an  hour; 
better,  for  two;  but  heroism  has  its  limits.  Nigh  him,  in 
the  dry  part  of  the  rivulet-bed,  the  Tarasconian  unexpectedly 
heard  the  sound  of  steps  and  of  pebbles  rolling.  This  time 
terror  lifted  him  off  the  ground.  He  banged  away  both 
barrels  at  haphazard  into  the  night,  and  retreated  as  fast  as 
his  legs  would  carry  him  to  the  marabout's  chapel-vault, 
leaving  his  knife  standing  up  in  the  sand  like  a  cross  com- 
memorative of  the  grandest  panic  that  ever  assailed  the  soul 
of  a  conqueror  of  hydras. 


yS  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

"  Help!  this  way,  prance ;  the  Hon  is  on  me!  " 

There  was  silence. 

"  Prance,  prance,  are  you  there?  " 

The  prince  was  not  there.  On  the  white  moonlit  wall  of 
the  fane  the  camel  alone  cast  the  queer-shaped  shadow  of  his 
protuberance.  Prince  Gregory  had  cut  and  run  with  the 
wallet  of  bank-notes.  His  Highness  had  been  for  the  month 
past  awaiting  this  opportunity. 


VI 

BAGGED    HIM   AT   LAST 

It  was  not  until  early  on  the  morrow  of  this  adventurous  and 
dramatic  eve  that  our  hero  awoke,  and  acquired  assurance 
doubly  sure  that  the  prince  and  the  treasure  had  really  gone 
off,  without  any  prospect  of  return.  When  he  saw  himself 
alone  in  the  little  white  tomb-house,  betrayed,  robbed, 
abandoned  in  the  heart  of  savage  Algeria,  with  a  one-humped 
camel  and  some  pocket-money  as  all  his  resources,  then  did 
the  representative  of  Tarascon  for  the  first  time  doubt.  He 
doubted  Montenegro,  friendship,  glory,  and  even  lions;  and 
the  great  man  blubbered  bitterly. 

Whilst  he  was  pensively  seated  on  the  sill  of  the  sanctuary, 
holding  his  head  between  his  hands  and  his  gun  between  his 
legs,  with  the  camel  mooning  at  him,  the  thicket  over  the 
way  was  divided,  and  the  stupor-stricken  Tartarin  saw  a 
gigantic  lion  appear  not  a  dozen  paces  off.  It  thrust  out  its 
high  head  and  emitted  powerful  roars,  which  made  the 
temple  walls  shake  beneath  their  votive  decorations,  and  even 
the  saint's  slippers  dance  in  their  niche. 

The  Tarasconian  alone  did  not  tremble. 

"At  last  you've  come!"  he  shouted,  jumping  up  and 
levelling  the  rifle. 

Bang,  bang !  went  a  brace  of  shells  into  its  head. 

It  was  done.  For  a  minute,  on  the  fiery  background  of 
the  Afric  sky,  there  was  a  dreadful  firework  display  of 
scattered  brains,  smoking  blood,  and  tawny  hair.     When 


Among  the  Lions  79 

all  fell^  Tartarin  perceived  two  colossal  negroes  furiously 
running  towards  hinij  brandishing  cudgels.  They  were  his 
two  negro  acquaintances  of  Milianah! 

Oh,  misery ! 

This  was  the  domesticated  lion,  the  poor  blind  beggar  of 
the  Mahomet  Monastery,  whom  the  Tarasconian's  bullets 
had  knocked  over. 

This  time,  spite  of  Mahound,  Tartarin  escaped  neatly. 
Drunk  with  fanatical  fury,  the  two  African  collectors  would 
have  surely  beaten  him  to  pulp  had  not  the  god  of  chase  and 
war  sent  him  a  delivering  angel  in  the  shape  of  the  rural  con- 
stable of  the  Orleansville  commune.  By  a  bypath  this  garde 
champStre  came  up,  his  sword  tucked  under  his  arm. 

The  sight  of  the  municipal  cap  suddenly  calmed  the  negroes' 
choler.  Peaceful  and  majestic,  the  officer  with  the  brass 
badge  drew  up  a  report  on  the  affair,  ordered  the  camel  to 
be  loaded  with  what  remained  of  the  king  of  beasts,  and  the 
plaintiffs  as  well  as  the  delinquent  to  follow  him,  proceeding 
to  Orleansville,  where  all  was  deposited  with  the  law-courts 
receiver. 

There  issued  a  long  and  alarming  case! 

After  the  Algeria  of  the  native  tribes  which  he  had  overrun, 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  became  thence  acquainted  with  another 
Algeria,  not  less  weird  and  to  be  dreaded — the  Algeria  of 
the  towns,  surcharged  with  lawyers  and  their  papers.  He 
got  to  know  the  pettifogger  who  does  business  at  the  back  of  a 
cafe — the  legal  Bohemian,  with  documents  reeking  of  worm- 
wood bitters  and  white  neckcloths  spotted  with  champoreau; 
the  ushers,  the  attorneys,  all  the  locusts  of  stamped  paper, 
meagre  and  famished,  who  eat  up  the  colonist  body  and  boots 
— ay,  to  the  very  straps  of  them,  and  leave  him  peeled  to 
the  cob  like  a  head  of  maize,  stripped  leaf  by  leaf. 

Before  all  else  it  was  necessary  to  ascertain  whether  the 
lion  had  been  killed  on  the  civil  or  the  military  territory.  In 
the  former  case  the  matter  regarded  the  Tribunal  of  Com- 
merce; in  the  second,  Tartarin  would  be  dealt  with  by  the 
Council  of  War;  and  at  the  mere  name  the  impressionable 
Tarasconian  saw  himself  shot  at  the  foot  of  the  ramparts  or 
huddled  up  in  a  casemate-silo. 

The  puzzle  lay  in  the  limitation  of  the  two  territories  being 
very  hazy  in  Algeria. 


8o  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

At  length,  after  a  month's  running  about,  entanglements, 
and  waiting  under  the  sun  in  the  yards  of  Arab  Depart- 
mental offices,  it  was  established  that,  whereas  the  lion  had 
been  killed  on  the  military  territory,  on  the  other  hand 
Tartarin  was  in  the  civil  territory  when  he  shot.  So  the  case 
was  decided  in  the  civil  courts,  and  our  hero  was  let  off  on 
paying  two  thousand  five  hundred  francs  damages,  costs  not 
included. 

How  could  he  pay  such  a  sum? 

The  few  piastres  escaped  from  the  prince's  sweep  had  long 
since  gone  in  legal  documents  and  judicial  libations.  The 
unfortunate  lion-destroyer  was  therefore  reduced  to  selling 
the  store  of  guns  by  retail,  rifle  by  rifle;  so  went  the  daggers, 
the  ]\Ialay  kreeses,  and  the  life-preservers.  A  grocer  pur- 
chased the  preserved  aliments ;  an  apothecary  what  remained 
of  the  medicaments.  The  big  boots  themselves  walked  ofif 
after  the  improved  tent  to  a  dealer  of  curiosities,  who  elevated 
them  to  the  dignity  of  "  rarities  from  Cochin-China." 

When  everything  was  paid  up,  only  the  lion's  skin  and  the 
camel  remained  to  Tartarin.  The  hide  he  had  carefully 
packed,  to  be  sent  to  Tarascon  to  the  address  of  brave  Com- 
mandant Bravida,  and,  later  on,  we  shall  see  what  came  of 
this  fabulous  trophy.  As  for  the  camel,  he  reckoned  on 
making  use  of  him  to  get  back  to  Algiers,  not  by  riding  on 
him,  but  by  selling  him  to  pay  his  coach-fare— the  best  way 
to  employ  a  camel  in  travelling.  Unhappily  the  beast  was 
difficult  to  place,  and  no  one  would  offer  a  copper  for  him. 

Still  Tartarin  wanted  to  regain  Algiers  by  hook  or  crook. 
He  was  in  haste  again  to  behold  Baya's  blue  bodice,  his  little 
snuggery  and  his  fountains,  as  well  as  to  repose  on  the  white 
trefoils  of  his  little  cloister  whilst  awaiting  money  from  France, 
So  our  hero  did  not  hesitate;  distressed  but  not  downcast. 
he  undertook  to  make  the  journey  afoot  and  penniless  by 
short  stages. 

In  this  enterprise  the  camel  did  not  cast  him  ofif.  The 
strange  animal  had  taken  an  unaccountable  fancy  for  his 
master,  and  on  seeing  him  leave  Orleansville,  he  set  to 
striding  steadfastly  behind  him,  regulating  his  pace  by  his, 
and  never  quitting  him  by  a  yard. 

At  the  first  outset  Tartarin  found  this  touching;  such 
fidelity  and  devotion  above  proof  went  to  his  heart,  all  the 


Among  the  Lions  8  i 

more  because  the  creature  was  accommodating,  and  fed 
himself  on  nothing.  Nevertheless,  after  a  few  days,  the 
Tarasconian  was  worried  by  having  this  glum  companion 
perpetually  at  his  heels,  to  remind  him  of  his  misadventures. 
Ire  arising,  he  hated  him  for  his  sad  aspect,  hump  and  gait  of 
a  goose  in  harness.  To  tell  the  whole  truth,  he  held  him  as 
his  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  and  only  pondered  on  how  to  shake 
him  off;  but  the  follower  would  not  be  shaken  off.  Tartarin 
attempted  to  lose  him,  but  the  camel  always  found  him;  he 
tried  to  outrun  him,  but  the  camel  ran  faster.  He  bad  him 
begone,  and  hurled  stones  at  him.  The  camel  stopped  with 
a  mournful  mien,  but  in  a  minute  resumed  the  pursuit,  and 
always  ended  by  overtaking  him.  Tartarin  had  to  resign 
himself. 

For  all  that,  when,  after  eight  full  days  of  tramping,  the 
dusty  and  harassed  Tarasconian  espied  the  first  white  house- 
tops of  Algiers  glimmer  from  afar  in  the  verdure,  and  when 
he  got  to  the  city  gates  on  the  noisy  Muotapha  Avenue,  amid 
the  Zouaves,  Biskris,  and  Mahonnais,  all  swarming  around 
him  and  staring  at  him  trudging  by  with  his  camel,  overtasked 
patience  escaped  him. 

"  No!  no!  "  he  growled,  "  it  is  not  likely!  I  cannot  enter 
Algiers  with  such  an  animal ! 

Profiting  by  a  jam  of  vehicles,  he  turned  ofi  into  the  fields 
and  jumped  into  a  ditch.  In  a  minute  or  so  he  saw  over  his 
head  on  the  highway  the  camel  frying  off  with  long  strides  and 
stretching  his  neck  with  a  wistful  air. 

Relieved  of  a  great  weight  thereby,  the  hero  sneaked  out 
of  his  covert,  and  entered  the  town  anew  by  a  circuitous  path 
which  skirted  the  wall  of  his  own  little  garden. 


82  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


VII 

CATASTROPHES  UPON  CATASTROPHES 

Entirely    astonished    was    Tartarin    before    his    Moorish 
dwelling  when  he  stopped. 

Day  was  dying  and  the  street  deserted.  Through  the  low 
pointed-arch  doorway  which  the  negress  had  forgotten  to 
close,  laughter  was  heard ;  and  the  clink  of  wine-glasses,  the 
popping  of  champagne  corks;  and,  floating  over  all  the  jolly 
uproar,  a  feminine  voice  singing  clearly  and  joyously, — 

"  Do  you  like,  Marco  la  Bella, 

To  dance  in  the  hall  hung  with  bloom?  " 

"  Throne  of  heaven!  "  ejaculated  the  Tarasconian,  turning 
pale,  as  he  rushed  into  the  enclosure. 

Hapless  Tartarin!  what  a  sight  awaited  him!  Beneath 
the  arches  of  the  little  cloister,  amongst  bottles,  pastry, 
scattered  cushions,  pipes,  tambourines,  and  guitars,  Baya 
was  singing,  "  Marco  la  Bella  "  with  a  ship  captain's  cap  over 
one  ear.  She  had  on  no  blue  vest  or  bodice;  indeed,  her 
only  wear  was  a  sih^ery  gauze  wrapper  and  full  pink  trousers. 
At  her  feet,  on  a  rug,  surfeited  with  love  and  sweetmeats, 
Barbassou,  the  infamous  skipper  Barbassou,  was  bursting 
with  laughter  at  hearing  her. 

The  apparition  of  Tartarin,  haggard,  wasted,  dusty,  his 
flaming  eyes,  and  the  bristling  up  fez  tassel,  sharply  inter- 
rupted this  tender  Turkish-Marseillais  orgie.  Baya  piped 
the  low  whine  of  a  frightened  leveret,  and  ran  for  safety 
into  the  house.  But  Barbassou  did  not  wince;  he  only 
laughed  the  louder,  saying, — 

"  Ha,  ha.  Monsieur  Tartarin!  What  do  you  say  to  that 
now?     You  see  she  does  know  French." 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  advanced  furiously,  crying, — 

"  Captain!  " 

"  Digo-li  que  vengue,  moun  bon  ! — tell  him  what's  happened, 
old  dear!  "  screamed  the  Moorish  woman,  leaning  over  the 
first  floor  gallery  with  a  pretty  low-bred  gesture. 


Among  the  Lions  83 

The  poor  man,  overwhelmed,  let  himself  collapse  upon  a 
drum.  His  genuine  Moorish  beauty  not  only  knew  French, 
but  the  French  of  Marseilles ! 

"  I  told  you  not  to  trust  the  Algerian  girls,"  observed 
Captain  Barbassou  sententiously.  "  They're  as  tricky  as 
your  Montenegrin  prince." 

Tartarin  lifted  his  head. 

"  Do  you  know  where  the  prince  is?  " 

"  Oh,  he's  not  far  off.  He  has  gone  to  stay  five  years  in 
the  handsome  prison  of  Mustapha.  The  rogue  let  himself 
be  caught  with  his  hand  in  the  pocket.  Anyways,  this  is  not 
the  first  time  he  has  been  clapped  into  the  calaboose.  His 
Highness  has  already  done  three  years  somewhere,  and — 
stop  a  bit !     I  believe  it  was  at  Tarascon." 

"At  Tarascon!"  cried  out  her  worthiest  son,  abruptly 
enlightened.  "  That's  how  he  only  knew  one  part  of  the 
town." 

"Hey?  Of  course.  Tarascon  —  a  jail  bird's-eye  view 
from  the  state  prison.  I  tell  you,  my  poor  Monsieur  Tar- 
tarin, you  have  to  keep  your  peepers  jolly  well  skinned  in 
this  deuce  of  a  country,  or  be  exposed  to  very  disagreeable 
things.     For  a  sample,  there's  the  muezzin's  game  with  you." 

"  What  game?    Which  muezzin?  " 

"  Why  your'n,  of  course!  The  chap  across  the  way  who 
is  making  up  to  Baya.  That  newspaper,  the  Akbar,  told 
the  yarn  t'other  day,  and  all  Algiers  is  laughing  over  it  even 
now.  It  is  so  funny  for  that  steeplejack  up  aloft  in  his 
crow's-nest  to  make  declarations  of  love  under  your  very 
nose  to  the  little  beauty  whilst  singing  out  his  prayers,  and 
making  appointments  with  her  between  bits  of  the  Koran." 

"  Why,  then,  they're  all  scamps  in  this  country !  "  howled 
the  unlucky  Tarasconian. 

Barbassou  snapped  his  fingers  like  a  philosopher. 

"  My  dear  lad,  you  know,  these  new  countries  are  *  rum ! ' 
But,  anyhow,  if  you'll  believe  me,  you'd  best  cut  back  to 
Tarascon  at  full  speed." 

"  It's  easy  to  say,  '  Cut  back.'  Where's  the  money  to 
come  from?  Don't  you  know  that  I  was  plucked  out  there 
in  the  desert?  " 

"What  does  that  matter?"  said  the  captain  merrily. 
"  The  Zouave  sails  to-morrow,  and  if  you  like  I  will  take  you 


84  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

home.  Does  that  suit  you,  mate?  Ay?  Then  all  goes 
well.  You  have  only  one  thing  to  do.  There  are  some 
bottles  of  fizz  left,  and  half  the  pie.  Sit  you  down  and 
pitch  in  without  any  grudge." 

After  the  minute's  wavering  which  self-respect  com- 
manded, the  Tarasconian  chose  his  course  manfully.  Down 
he  sat,  and  they  touched  glasses.  Baya,  gliding  down  at 
that  chink,  sang  the  finale  of  "  Marco  la  Bella,"  and  the 
jollification  was  prolonged  deep  into  the  night. 

About  3  A.M.,  with  a  light  head  but  a  heavy  foot,  our 
good  Tarasconian  was  returning  from  seeing  his  friend  the 
captain  off,  when,  in  passing  the  mosque,  the  remembrance 
of  his  muezzin  and  his  practical  jokes  made  him  laugh,  and 
instantly  a  capital  idea  of  revenge  flitted  through  his  brain. 

The  door  was  open.  He  entered,  threaded  long  corridors 
hung  with  mats,  mounted  and  kept  on  mounting  till  he 
finally  found  himself  in  a  little  oratory,  where  an  openwork 
iron  lantern  swung  from  the  ceiling,  and  embroidered  an  odd 
pattern  in  shadows  upon  the  blanched  walls. 

There  sat  the  crier  on  a  divan,  in  his  large  turban  and 
white  pelisse,  with  his  Mostaganam  pipe,  and  a  bumper  of 
absinthe  before  him,  which  he  whipped  up  in  the  orthodox 
manner,  whilst  awaiting  the  hour  to  call  true  believers  to 
prayer.     At  view  of  Tartarin,  he  dropped  his  pipe  in  terror. 

"  Not  a  word,  knave!  "  said  the  Tarasconian,  full  of  his 
project.     "Quick!     Off  with  turban  and  coat !  " 

The  Turkish  priest-crier  tremblingly  handed  over  his  outer 
garments,  as  he  would  have  done  with  anything  else.  Tar- 
tarin donned  them,  and  gravely  stepped  out  upon  the 
minaret  platform. 

In  the  distance  the  sea  shone.  The  white  roofs  glittered 
in  the  moonbeams.  On  the  sea  breeze  was  heard  the  strum- 
ming of  a  few  belated  guitars.  The  Tarasconian  muezzin 
gathered  himself  up  for  the  effort  during  a  space,  and  then, 
raising  his  arms,  he  set  to  chanting  in  a  very  shrill  voice: 

"  La  Allah  il  Allah  !  Mahomet  is  an  old  humbug!  The 
Orient,  the  Koran,  bashaws,  lions,  Moorish  beauties— they 
are  all  not  worth  a  fly's  skip!  There  is  nothing  left  but 
gammoners.     Long  live  Tarascon !  " 

Whilst  the  illustrious  Tartarin,  in  his  queer  jumbling  of 
Arabic  and  Proven9al,  flung  his  mirthful  maledictions  to  the 


Among  the  Lions  85 

four  quarters,  sea,  town,  plain  and  mountain,  the  clear, 
solemn  voices  of  the  other  muezzins  answered  him,  taking 
up  the  strain  from  minaret  to  minaret,  and  the  believers  of 
the  upper  town  devoutly  beat  their  bosoms  one  and  all. 


VIII 

TARASCON   again! 

Mid-day  has  come. 

The  Zouave  had  her  steam  up,  ready  to  go.  Upon  the 
balcony  of  the  Valentin  Cafe,  high  above,  the  ofhcers  were 
levelling  telescopes,  and,  with  the  colonel  at  their  head, 
looking  at  the  lucky  little  craft  that  was  going  back  to 
France.  This  is  the  main  distraction  of  the  staff.  On  the 
lower  level,  the  roads  glittered.  The  old  Turkish  cannon 
breaches,  stuck  up  along  the  waterside,  blazed  in  the  sun. 
The  passengers  hurried.  Biskris  and  Mahonnais  piled  their 
luggage  up  in  the  wherries. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  no  luggage.  Here  he  comes 
down  the  Rue  de  la  Marine  through  the  little  market,  full  of 
bananas  and  melons,  accompanied  by  his  friend  Barbassou. 
The  hapless  Tarasconian  left  on  the  Moorish  strand  his  gun- 
cases  and  his  illusions,  and  now  he  had  to  sail  for  Tarascon 
with  his  hands  in  his  otherwise  empty  pockets.  He  had 
barely  leaped  into  the  captain's  cutter  before  a  breathless 
beast  slid  down  from  the  heights  of  the  square  and  galloped 
towards  him.  It  was  the  faithful  camel,  who  had  been 
hunting  after  his  master  in  Algiers  during  the  last  four-and- 
twenty  hours. 

On  seeing  him,  Tartarin  changed  countenance,  and  feigned 
not  to  know  him,  but  the  camel  was  not  going  to  be  put  off. 
He  scampered  along  the  quay;  he  whinnied  for  his  friend, 
and  regarded  him  with  affection, 

"  Take  me  away,"  his  sad  eyes  seemed  to  say,  "  take  me 
away  in  your  ship,  far,  far  from  this  sham  Arabia,  this 
ridiculous  Land  of  the  East,  full  of  locomotives  and  stage 
coaches,  where  a  camel  is  so  sorely  out  of  keeping  that  I  do 


86  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

not  know  what  will  become  of  me.  You  are  the  last  real 
Turk,  and  I  am  the  last  camel.  Do  not  let  us  part,  0  my 
Tartarin !  " 

"  Is  that  camel  yours?  "  the  captain  inquired. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it!  "  relpied  Tartarin,  who  shuddered  at  the 
idea  of  entering  Tarascon  with  that  ridiculous  escort;  and, 
impudently  denying  the  companion  of  his  misfortunes,  he 
spurned  the  Algerian  soil  with  his  foot,  and  gave  the  cutter 
the  shoving-off  start.  The  camel  sniffed  at  the  water,  ex- 
tended its  neck,  cracked  its  joints,  and,  jumping  in  behind 
the  row-boat  at  haphazard,  he  swam  towards  the  Zouave 
with  his  humpback  floating  like  a  bladder,  and  his  long  neck 
projecting  over  the  wave  like  the  beak  of  a  galley. 

Cutter  and  camel  came  alongside  the  mail  steamer  together. 

"  This  dromedary  regularly  cuts  me  up,"  observed  Captain 
Barbassou,  quite  affected.  "  I  have  a  good  mind  to  take 
him  aboard  and  make  a  present  of  him  to  the  Zoological 
Gardens  at  Marseilles." 

And  so  they  hauled  up  the  camel  with  many  blocks  and 
tackles  upon  the  deck,  being  increased  in  weight  by  the 
brine,  and  the  Zouave  started. 

Tartarin  spent  the  two  days  of  the  crossing  by  himself  in 
his  stateroom,  not  because  the  sea  was  rough,  or  that  the 
red  fez  had  too  much  to  suffer,  but  because  the  deuced  camel, 
as  soon  as  his  master  appeared  above  decks,  showed  him  the 
most  preposterous  attentions.  You  never  did  see  a  camel 
make  such  an  exhibition  of  a  man  as  this. 

From  hour  to  hour,  through  the  cabin  portholes,  where  he 
stuck  out  his  nose  now  and  then,  Tartarin  saw  the  Algerian 
blue  sky  pale  away;  until  one  morning,  in  a  silvery  fog,  he 
heard  with  delight  Marseilles  bells  ringing  out.  The  Zouave 
had  arrived  and  cast  anchor. 

Our  man,  having  no  luggage,  got  off  without  saying  any- 
thing, hastily  slipped  through  Marseilles  for  fear  he  was  still 
pursued  by  the  camel,  and  never  breathed  till  he  was  in  a 
third-class  carriage  making  for  Tarascon. 

Deceptive  security ! 

Hardly  were  they  two  leagues  from  the  city  before  every 
head  was  stuck  out  of  window.  There  were  outcries  and 
astonishment.  Tartarin  looked  in  his  turn,  and — what  did 
he  descry !    the  camel,  reader,  the  inevitable  camel,  racing 


Among  the  Lions  87 

along  the  line  behind  the  train,  and  keeping  up  with  it ! 
The  dismayed  Tartarin  drew  back  and  shut  his  eyes. 

After  this  disastrous  expedition  of  his  he  had  reckoned 
on  shpping  into  his  house  incognito.  But  the  presence  of 
this  burdensome  quadruped  rendered  the  thing  impossible. 
What  kind  of  a  triumplial  entry  would  he  make?  Good 
heavens !  not  a  sou,  not  a  lion,  nothing  to  show  for  it  save 
a  camel! 

"Tarascon!   Tarascon!" 

He  was  obliged  to  get  down. 

O  amazement ! 

Scarce  had  the  hero's  red  fez  popped  out  of  the  doorway 
before  a  loud  shout  of  "  Tartarin  for  ever!  "  made  the  glazed 
roof  of  the  railway  station  tremble.  "  Long  life  to  Tartarin, 
the  lion-slayer!  "  And  out  burst  the  windings  of  horns  and 
the  choruses  of  the  local  musical  societies. 

Tartarin  felt  death  had  come:  he  believed  in  a  hoax.  But, 
no!  all  Tarascon  was  there,  waving  their  hats,  all  of  the  same 
way  of  thinking.  Behold  the  brave  Major  Bravida,  Coste- 
calde  the  armourer,  the  Chief  Judge,  the  chemist,  and  the 
whole  noble  corps  of  cap-poppers,  who  pressed  arounrl 
their  leader,  and  carried  him  in  triumph  out  through  the 
passages. 

Singular  effects  of  the  mirage ! — the  hide  of  the  blind  lion 
sent  to  Bravida  was  the  cause  of  all  this  riot.  With  that 
humble  fur  exhibited  in  the  club-room,  the  Tarasconians, 
and,  at  the  back  of  them,  the  whole  South  of  France,  had 
grown  exalted.  The  Semaphore  newspaper  had  spoken  of  it. 
A  drama  had  been  invented.  It  was  not  merely  a  solitary 
lion  which  Tartarin  had  slain,  but  ten,  nay,  twenty — pooh! 
a  herd  of  lions  had  been  made  mincemeat  of.  Hence,  on 
disembarking  at  Marseilles,  Tartarin  was  already  celebrated 
without  being  aware  of  it,  and  an  enthusiastic  telegram  had 
gone  on  before  him  by  two  hours  to  his  native  place. 

But  what  capped  the  climax  of  the  popular  gladness  was 
to  see  a  fancifully  shaped  animal,  covered  with  foam  and 
dust,  appear  behind  the  hero,  and  stumble  down  the  station 
stairs. 

Tarascon  for  an  instant  believed  that  its  dragon  was  come 
again. 

Tartarin  set  his  fellow-citizens  at  ease 


88  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 

"  This  is  my  camel,"  he  said. 

Already  feeling  the  influence  of  the  splendid  sun  of  Taras- 
con, which  makes  people  tell  "  bouncers  "  unwittingly,  he 
added,  as  he  fondled  the  camel's  hump: 

"  It  is  a  noble  beast!     It  saw  me  kill  all  my  lions!  " 

Whereupon  he  familiarly  took  the  arm  of  the  major, 
who  was  red  with  pleasure;  and  followed  by  his  camel,  sur- 
rounded by  the  cap-hunters,  acclaimed  by  all  the  population, 
he  placidly  proceeded  towards  Baobab  Villa;  and,  on  the 
march,  thus  commenced  the  account  of  his  mighty  hunting: 

"  Once  upon  an  evening,  you  are  to  imagine  that,  out  in 
the  depths  of  the  Sahara  " 


TARTARIN  ON  THE  ALPS 

TRANSLATED   BY 
HENRY  FRITH 


TARTARIN    ON    THE    ALPS 


AN  APPARITION  ON  THE  RIGI-KULM — WHO  IS  HE? — WHAT  WAS 
SAID  AT  THE  TABLE  d'hOTE — RICE  AND  PRUNES — AN 
IMPROVISED  BALL — THE  UNKNOWN  SIGNS  HIS  NAME  IX 
THE  HOTEL  REGISTER — P.  C.  A. 

On  the  loth  of  August,  1880,  at  the  fabled  hour  of  sunset, 
so  much  belauded  by  Joanne's  and  Baedeker's  Guide-Books, 
a  thick,  yellow  fog,  rendered  more  puzzling  by  a  whirling 
snow-storm,  enveloped  the  summit  of  the  Rigi  [Regina 
montium)  and  that  immense  hotel — which  presents  such  an 
extraordinary  appearance  in  the  barren  landscape  of  hills — 
the  Rigi-Kulm,  glazed  like  an  observatory,  massive  as  a 
citadel,  wherein  for  a  day  and  a  night  a  crowd  of  sun-worship- 
ping tourists  is  located. 

While  awaiting  the  second  dinner-gong,  the  occupants  of 
this  extensive  and  sumptuous  caravanserai,  chilled  in  their 
bedrooms,  or  seated  listlessly  on  the  divans  in  the  reading- 
room,  in  the  damp  semi-warmth  of  the  lighted  stoves,  were 
gazing  —  in  default  of  the  promised  splendours  —  at  the 
whirling  snowflakes  in  the  air,  or  at  the  lighting  of  the  great 
lamps  before  the  entrance,  whose  double  glasses  quivered  in 
the  tempestuous  wind. 

Fancy  having  ascended  so  high  and  having  come  from  all 
parts  of  the  world  for  this !     0  Boedeker  1 

Suddenly  something  emerged  from  the  fog  and  advanced 
towards  the  hotel,  with  the  clanking  of  iron,  an  exaggera- 
tion of  its  movements  being  caused  by  the  unusual 
surroundings. 

At  twenty  paces  distant  through  the  snow,  the  idle  tourists, 
with  their  noses  flattened  against  the  windows,  the  little  girls, 

91 


92  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

whose  hair  was  cut  short  Hke  boys',  took  this  apparition  for 
a  straying  cow,  then  for  a  retameur  carrying  his  tools. 

At  ten  paces  the  apparition  again  changed  its  appearance, 
and  showed  a  cross-bow  on  its  shoulder,  and  the  casque  of 
an  archer  of  the  middle  ages  on  its  head,  an  object  still  less 
likely  to  be  met  with  on  the  mountains  than  a  cow  or  a 
pedlar. 

When  he  reached  the  steps,  the  archer  was  only  a  fat  man, 
thickset,  and  broad-shouldered,  who  stopped  to  puff  and 
blow,  and  to  shake  the  snow  from  his  gaiters,  which  were  of 
yellow  cloth  like  his  cap,  and  from  his  knitted  comforter, 
which  permitted  scarcely  anything  to  be  seen  of  his  face  but 
two  enormous  tufts  of  grey  whisker  and  a  pair  of  green 
spectacles  like  the  eye-pieces  of  a  stereoscope.  An  ice-axe, 
an  alpenstock,  a  knapsack,  a  coil  of  rope,  crampons,  and  iron 
hooks  suspended  from  the  belt  of  a  Norfolk  jacket  with  deep 
flaps,  completed  the  accoutrement  of  this  perfect  Alpine 
climber. 

Upon  the  desolate  summit  of  Mont  Blanc  or  the  Fins- 
teraarhorn,  such  a  "  get  up  "  would  have  been  suitable 
enough;  but  at  the  Rigi-Kulm,  a  few  paces  from  the 
railway ! 

The  Alpinist,  it  is  true,  came  from  the  side  opposite  to  the 
station,  and  the  condition  of  his  leggings  bore  witness  to  the 
long  tramp  he  had  had  through  the  snow  and  mire. 

For  a  moment  he  gazed  at  the  hotel  and  its  dependencies, 
surprised  to  find,  at  six  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the 
sea,  a  building  of  such  a  size,  with  its  glazed  galleries,  its 
colonnades,  its  seven  ranges  of  windows,  and  the  wide  flight 
of  steps  between  two  rows  of  lamps  which  gave  to  the  top  of 
the  mountain  something  of  the  appearance  of  the  Place  de 
rOpera  in  a  wintry  twilight. 

But  however  greatly  surprised  he  may  have  been,  the 
occupants  of  the  hotel  seemed  much  more  so;  and  when  he 
entered  the  wide  vestibule,  a  curious,  pushing  crowd  filled 
the  doorways  of  the  salles  ;  gentlemen  grasping  billiard  cues, 
or  with  newspapers  in  their  hands;  ladies  holding  their  books 
or  work;  while  at  the  end,  up  the  staircase,  heads  were  pro- 
truded over  the  banisters  and  between  the  chains  of  the 
"  lift." 

The  new-comer  spoke  in  a  loud  voice,  a  strong  basso- 


An  Apparition  on  the  Rigi-Kulm     93 

profundo,  a  cretix  du  Midi,  which  sounded  Hke  a  pair  of 
cymbals, — 

"  Coquin  de  sort !     Here's  weather " 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  took  ofif  his  cap  and  spectacles. 

He  was  choking. 

The  glare  of  the  lights,  the  heat  of  the  gas  and  of  the 
stoves,  contrasting  with  the  black  cold  night  outside,  the 
sumptuous  appearance  of  the  hotel,  the  lofty  vestibule,  the 
richly-laced  porters  with  "  regina  montium  "  in  gold  letters 
on  their  caps,  the  white  ties  of  the  maiires  d'hStel,  and  the 
battalion  of  Swiss  female  servants  in  their  national  costumes, 
who  came  running  up  at  the  sound  of  the  gong — all  this 
impressed  him  for  a  second,  not  for  more  than  one. 

He  felt  himself  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  and  immediately 
recovered  his  self-possession,  like  a  comedian  before  a  full 
house. 

"  Monsieur  desire ?  " 

It  was  the  manager  who  asked  him  the  question,  softly; 
a  very  well  got-up  manager,  with  a  striped  jacket,  carefully 
tended  whiskers,  and  tres  chic,  in  fact. 

The  mountaineer,  without  any  emotion,  demanded  a  room, 
"  a  nice  little  room  at  any  rate,"  quite  as  much  at  his  ease 
with  this  majestic  manager  as  with  an  old  school  friend. 

He  was  very  nearly  putting  himself  out,  though,  when  the 
Bernese  servant  approached  him,  candle  in  hand,  resplendent 
in  her  gold  lace  and  tulle-decked  sleeves,  to  inquire  whether 
Monsieur  would  like  to  go  up  in  the  lift.  If  she  had  suggested 
the  commission  of  a  crime  our  hero  could  not  have  been  more 
indignant. 

A  lift !  for  him !  for  him !  His  exclamation  and  his 
gesture,  caused  his  paraphernalia  to  rattle  again. 

As  suddenly  appeased  he  said  to  the  Swiss  maid  in  a 
pleasant  tone:  "  Pedibus  cum  jambis,  ma  belle  chatte,"  and 
he  mounted  behind  her,  his  wide  back  occupying  the  width 
of  the  stairs,  knocking  against  people  on  the  way  up,  while 
the  whole  hotel  rang  with  the  question,  "Who  is  he.'*" 
expressed  in  every  language  under  the  sun.  Then  the  second 
dinner-bell  sounded,  and  no  one  troubled  himself  or  herself 
any  more  concerning  this  extraordinary  individual. 

A  sight  indeed  is  the  salle-a-tnanger  of  the  Rigi-Kulm. 


94  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

Six  hundred  guests  seated  around  an  immense  horse-shoe 
table  on  which  dishes  of  rice  and  prunes  alternate  in  long 
files  with  green  plants,  reflecting  in  their  clear  or  brown 
sauce  the  lights  of  the  lustres  or  the  gilding  of  the  panelled 
ceiling. 

As  at  all  Swiss  tables  d'hote,  this  rice  and  these  prunes 
divide  the  diners  into  two  rival  factions,  and  the  looks  of 
hatred  or  covetousness  bestowed  upon  the  dessert  dishes  is 
quite  sufficient  to  enable  the  spectator  to  divine  to  which 
party  the  guests  belong.  The  Rice  Party  betray  themselves 
by  their  pallor,  the  Prunes  by  their  congested  appear- 
ance. 

On  this  particular  evening  the  latter  were  in  the  majority, 
and  included  all  the  most  important  personages,  quite 
European  celebrities,  such  as  the  great  historian  Astier-Rehu 
of  the  French  Academy;  the  Baron  de  Stolz,  an  old  Austro- 
Hungarian  diplomatist;  Lord  Chippendale,  a  member  of 
the  Jockey  Club  with  his  niece  (?)  (hum!);  the  illustrious 
Professor  Schwanthaler,  of  Bonn  University;  a  Peruvian 
general  and  his  eight  daughters. 

To  all  these  the  Rice  faction  could  only  oppose  as  vedettes 
a  Belgian  Senator  and  his  family;  Madame  Schwanthaler, 
the  wife  of  the  Professor  aforesaid;  and  an  Italian  tenor  on 
his  way  from  Russia,  exhibiting  upon  the  table-cloth  a  pair 
of  sleeve-links  as  large  as  saucers. 

These  double  and  opposing  currents  no  doubt  gave  an  air  of 
lassitude  and  stiffness  to  the  table  d'hote.  How  otherwise  can 
we  account  for  the  silence  of  these  six  hundred  persons,  stiff, 
surly,  defiant,  with  that  supreme  contempt  which  they 
affected  to  possess  one  for  the  other  ?  A  superficial  observer 
would  have  attributed  it  to  the  stupid  Anglo-Saxon  reserve 
which  now  gives  the  tone  to  the  travelling  world. 

But  no !  Human  beings  do  not  thus  hate  each  other  at 
first  sight;  turning  up  their  noses  at  each  other;  sneer- 
ing, and  glancing  superciliously  at  one  another  in  the 
absence  of  introductions.  There  must  have  been  some- 
thing else ! 

Rice  and  Prunes,  I  tell  you.  There  you  have  the  explana- 
tion of  the  mournful  silence  that  weighed  down  upon  the 
dinner  at  the  Rigi-Kulm,  which,  considering  the  number 
and  the  varied  nationalities  of  the  guests,  ought  to  have 


At  the  Table  d'Hote  95 

been  very  animated  and  noisy;  something  like  what  one 
would  imagine  a  meal  at  the  foot  of  the  Tower  of  Babel 
might  have  been. 

The  mountaineer  entered  the  room — a  little  perplexed  in 
this  assembly  of  Trappists  beneath  the  glare  of  the  lustres — 
coughed  loudly  without  any  one  taking  any  notice  of  him^ 
and  seated  himself  in  his  place  next  the  last  comer,  at 
the  end  of  the  table.  Unaccoutred  now^  he  was  simply  an 
ordinary  tourist,  but  of  a  very  amiable  appearance;  bald, 
rotund,  his  beard  thick  and  pointed,  a  fine  nose,  thick  and 
somewhat  fierce  eyebrows,  with  a  pleasant  manner  and 
appearance. 

Rice  or  Prune !    No  one  knew  yet. 

Scarcely  had  he  seated  himself,  when,  quitting  his  place 
with  a  bound,  he  exclaimed,  ''Outre!  a  draught!"  and 
rushed  to  an  empty  chair  turned  down  at  the  centre  of  the 
table. 

He  was  stopped  by  one  of  the  Swiss  female  attendants,  a 
native  of  the  canton  of  Uri,  wearing  little  silver  chains  and 
white  stomacher. 

"  Monsieur,  that  is  engaged." 

Then,  from  the  table,  a  young  lady,  of  whom  he  could  see 
nothing  but  a  mass  of  fair  hair  relieved  by  a  neck  white  as 
virgin  snow,  said,  without  turning  round,  and  with  a  foreign 
accent : 

"  This  seat  is  at  liberty;  my  brother  is  not  well,  and  will 
not  come  down  to  dinner." 

"  111.?  "  asked  the  mountaineer,  with  an  interested,  almost 
affectionate,  manner,  as  he  seated  himself.  "111?  Not 
dangerously,  au  mains  ?  " 

He  pronounced  the  last  words  au  mouain,  and  they  reas- 
serted themselves  with  some  other  vocal  parasites  "  he,  que, 
te,  zou,  ve,  va'i,  allojts,"  etc.,  that  still  further  accentuated  his 
southern  tongue,  which  was  no  doubt  displeasing  to  the 
youthful  blonde;  for  she  only  replied  to  him  with  a  stony 
stare — from  eyes  of  deep,  dark  blue. 

The  neighbour  on  his  right  was  not  encouraging  either. 
He  was  the  Italian  tenor,  with  a  low  forehead,  very  moist 
eyes,  and  Hectoring  moustaches  which  he  twirled  in  an 
irritable  manner,  for  had  he  not  been  separated  from  his 
pretty  neighbour?     But  the  good  mountaineer  had  a  habit 


96  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

of  talking  while  he  was  eating — he  thought  it  good  for  his 
digestion. 

"  Ve  /  What  pretty  buttons,"  he  remarked  aloud  to 
himself,  as  he  glanced  at  the  Italian's  sleeve-studs.  "  Those 
notes  of  music,  inlaid  with  the  jasper,  have  a  charming  effect  " 
— "  un  effet  charmain  "  ! 

His  strident  tones  rang  through  the  silent  salle,  without 
producing  the  least  echo. 

"  Surely  monsieur  is  a  singer,  que  ?  " 

"  Non  capisco,^''  growled  the  Italian  through  his  mous- 
tache. 

For  a  moment  the  man  devoted  himself  to  his  dinner 
without  speaking — but  the  food  choked  him.  At  length,  as 
his  opposite  neighbour,  the  Austro-Hungarian  diplomatist, 
attempted  to  reach  the  mustard-pot  with  his  small,  aged, 
shaking  hands,  enveloped  in  mittens,  our  hero  passed  it 
politely  to  him,  saying,  "  A  votre  service,  monsieur  le  baron,'' 
for  he  had  heard  him  thus  addressed. 

Unfortunately  poor  M.  de  Stoltz,  notwithstanding  the 
cunning  and  ingenious  air  which  he  had  contracted  in  the 
pursuit  of  Chinese  diplomacy,  had  long  ago  lost  his  speech 
and  his  ideas,  and  was  travelling  around  the  mountains  with 
the  view  of  finding  them  again.  He  opened  his  eyes  wide 
and  gazed  at  the  unknown  face,  and  then  shut  them  again 
without  saying  anything.  It  would  have  taken  ten  old 
diplomats  of  his  intellectual  power  to  find  the  formula  of 
acknowledgment. 

At  this  new  failure  the  mountaineer  made  a  grimace,  and 
the  rough  manner  in  which  he  seized  the  bottle  gave  one  the 
idea  that  he  was  going  to  break,  with  it,  the  cracked  head  of 
the  old  diplomatist.  But  no  such  thing.  It  was  merely  to 
offer  his  neighbour  a  glass  of  wine,  but  she  did  not  hear  him, 
being  lost  in  a  murmured  conversation — a  chirping,  sweet 
and  lively,  in  an  unknown  tongue — with  two  young  people 
close  by.  She  leaned  forward,  she  became  animated.  He 
could  see  her  little  curls  shimmer  in  the  light  against  a  tiny 
ear,  transparent  and  rosy-tinted.  Polish?  Russian?  Nor- 
wegian? Well,  certainly  Northern;  and  a  pretty  little 
song  of  his  native  district  escaped  the  lips  of  the  Southerner, 
who  quietly  began  to  hum, — 


Rice  and  Prunes  97 

"  O  coumtesso  gento, 
Eslelo  dou  Nord 
Que  la  neu  argento, 
Qu' Amour  friso  en  or." 

Everybody  at  table  turned  round :  they  all  thought  he  had 
gone  mad.  He  blushed  and  kept  himself  quiet  in  his  place, 
not  moving  except  to  push  violently  away  the  dish  of  sacred 
fruit  which  they  passed  to  him. 

"  Prunes!    Never  in  my  life!  " 

This  was  too  much. 

There  was  a  great  movement  of  chairs.  The  Academician, 
Lord  Chippendale,  the  Professor  of  Bonn,  and  some  other 
notables  of  the  party,  rose  and  quitted  the  room  by  way  of 
protest. 

The  Rice  Party  almost  immediately  followed  them  when 
they  perceived  the  stranger  push  away  from  him  the  other 
dessert  dish  as  violently  as  the  former. 

Neither  Rice  nor  Prune !    What  then  ? 

All  the  guests  retired,  and  the  silence  was  truly  glacial  as 
the  people,  with  bowed  heads  and  with  the  corners  of  their 
mouths  disdainfully  drawn  down,  passed  in  front  of  the 
unhappy  individual  who  remained  alone  in  the  immense 
dining-room,  inclined  de  faire  une  trempette  after  the  manner 
of  his  country,  but  kept  down  by  the  universal  disdain ! 

My  friends,  never  despise  any  one.  Contempt  is  the 
resource  of  upstarts,  of  parvenus,  of  ugly  people,  of  fools, — 
the  mask  beneath  which  they  hide  their  insignificance,  some- 
times their  poverty,  and  which  dispense  with  mind,  with 
judgment,  with  goodness.  All  hump-backed  people  are 
contemptuous;  all  the  wry-nosed  ones  scowl  and  display 
disdain  when  they  meet  with  a  straight  nose ! 

Our  good  mountaineer  knew  that.  Having  passed  his 
fortieth  year  some  time  before — that  "  pali'er  du  quatrieme  " 
where  man  finds  and  picks  up  the  magic  key  which  opens  life 
to  him  to  the  very  end,  showing  him  the  monotonous  and 
deceptive  perspective  of  years,  becoming  cognisant,  besides, 
of  his  worth,  the  importance  of  his  mission,  and  of  the  great 
name  that  he  bears — the  opinion  of  such  people  scarcely 
affected  him.  Besides  he  had  only  to  mention  his  name — 
to  cry  out,  "  It  is  I  " — to  change  into  profound  respect  all 
these  haughty  lips.     But  the  incognito  amused  him. 


98  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

He  only  suffered  because  he  could  not  talk  and  make  a 
noise,  give  vent  to  his  opinions,  shake  hands,  tap  people 
familiarly  on  the  shoulder,  and  call  them  by  their  Christian 
names.     That  is  what  oppressed  him  at  the  Rigi-Kulm. 

But  above  all  was  the  fact  that  he  had  no  one  to 
talk  to! 

"  It  will  give  me  the  pip,  I  am  quite  sure  of  that,"  he  said 
to  himself,  as  he  wandered  about  the  hotel,  not  knowing  what 
to  do  with  himself. 

He  entered  the  caje,  as  empty  as  a  church  on  a  week-day, 
called  the  waiter  "  my  good  friend,"  ordered  a  "  mocha 
without  sugar — quey  As  the  waiter  did  not  ask,  "  Why 
without  sugar?"  the  Alpinist  added  quickly,  "That  is  a 
habit  I  contracted  in  Algeria  when  I  was  hunting  there." 

He  was  going  to  tell  him  about  it,  but  the  man  had  fled 
away  like  a  phantom  to  Lord  Chippendale,  who  was  stretched 
upon  a  couch  and  demanding  in  a  melancholy  voice, 
■'  Tchimpp^gne,  Tchimppegne."  The  cork  popped  cheer- 
fully, and  then  nothing  more  was  heard  but  the  roaring  of 
the  wind  in  the  massive  chimney  and  the  chilling  click  of 
the  snow  against  the  window-panes. 

Very  doleful  also  was  the  reading-room;  all  the  papers 
engaged.  Those  hundreds  of  heads  bent  around  the  long 
green  tables  under  the  reflectors.  From  time  to  time  was 
heard  a  sneeze  or  a  cough,  or  the  rustling  of  a  page  turned 
by  a  reader.  Standing  upright  and  motionless,  looking  down 
upon  the  calm  of  the  reading-room,  with  their  backs  to  the 
stove,  were  the  two  pontiffs  of  official  history,  Schwanthaler 
and  Astier-Rehu — equally  solemn  and  equally  dry — whom  a 
curious  fatality  had  brought  together  at  the  top  of  the  Rigi 
after  a  lapse  of  thirty  years,  during  which  period  they  had 
been  vilifying  each  other,  and  pulling  each  other  to  pieces 
in  abusive  notes,  as  Schwanthaler  the  blockhead,  and  Astier- 
Rehu  vir  ineptisshnus. 

You  may  imagine  the  reception  the  benevolent  Alpinist 
had  when  he  took  a  seat  at  the  corner  of  the  fire-place,  to 
hear  a  few  instructive  words.  From  the  height  of  the  two 
Caryatids  fell  suddenly  upon  him  one  of  those  cold  currents 
which  he  so  greatly  dreaded:  he  rose,  paced  the  room,  as 
much  for  appearance  sake  as  to  warm  himself;  then  he 
opened  the  bookcase.     Some  English  novels  were  in  it,  mixed 


The  Salon  of  the  Rigi-Kulm         99 

up  with  heavy  Bibles  and  some  well-thumbed  volumes  of 
the  Swiss  Alpine  Club:  he  took  one  of  these,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  reading  it  in  bed,  but  he  was  stopped  at  the  door, 
as  the  regulations  of  the  hotel  do  not  permit  any  one  to 
carr\'  books  up  stairs  to  the  bedrooms. 

Then,  continuing  to  wander  about,  he  opened  the  door  of 
the  billiard-room,  where  the  Italian  tenor  was  playing  by 
himself,  bending  himself  into  graceful  attitudes,  and  display- 
ing his  wristbands  for  the  edification  of  his  pretty  neighbour, 
who  was  seated  on  a  divan  between  two  young  men,  to  whom 
she  was  reading  a  letter.  As  the  mountaineer  entered  she 
paused,  and  one  of  the  young  fellows  got  up — he  was  the 
taller,  a  sort  of  inoujik,  homme-chien,  with  hairy  hands,  and 
black  locks,  flat  and  shiny,  joined  to  an  untrimmed  beard. 
He  made  two  paces  towards  the  new-comer,  and  looked  at 
him  so  provokingly  and  so  ferociously  that  the  kindly 
Alpinist,  without  demanding  any  explanation,  executed  a 
half-turn  to  the  right  prudently  and  with  dignity. 

"  They  are  not  very  pleasant  people  in  the  North,"  he  said 
aloud,  as  he  slammed  the  door  behind  him  loudly  to  let  the 
savage  perceive  that  he  was  not  afraid  of  him. 

The  salon  was  now  his  only  remaining  refuge.  He  entered 
it.  Coqia'n  de  sort  !  The  Morgue,  good  people,  the  Morgue 
of  Mont  St.  Bernard^wherein  the  monks  exhibit  the  unfor- 
tunate travellers  who  have  been  found  in  the  snow  in  the 
various  attitudes  in  which  they  were  frozen  to  death — that 
was  what  the  salon  of  the  Rigi-Kulm  was ! 

All  the  ladies,  in  frozen  silence,  in  groups  upon  the  circular 
seats,  or  had  fallen  even  on  isolated  chairs,  here  and  there. 
All  the  young  ladies,  immovable,  under  the  lamps  on  the 
round  tables,  still  holding  in  their  hands  the  album,  the 
magazine,  or  the  embroidery  which  they  were  holding  when 
the  cold  seized  them ;  and  amongst  them  were  the  daughters 
of  the  general,  the  eight  little  Peruvians  with  their  saffron 
complexions,  their  tresses  in  disorder,  the  bright-coloured 
ribbons  of  their  dresses  contrasting  with  the  more  subdued 
tones  of  the  English  fashions,  poor  little  pays-chauds  whom 
one  can  imagine  grinning  and  grimacing  at  the  tops  of  the 
cocoa-nut  trees,  and  whom,  more  than  the  other  victims,  it 
pained  one  to  see  in  that  state  of  silence  and  congelation. 
Then  at  the  end  of  the  room,  at  the  piano,  was  the  death's- 

H423 


loo  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

head  profile  of  the  old  diplomatist,  his  little  mitten-covered 
hands  lay  motionless  upon  the  key-board,  his  face  reflecting 
the  yellow  tinge  of  the  keys. 

Betrayed  by  his  strength  and  his  memory,  lost  in  a  polka 
of  his  own  composition,  which  he  always  recommenced  at 
the  same  movement  in  default  of  recollecting  the  coda,  the 
unhappy  de  Stoltz  had  gone  to  sleep  while  playing  it,  and 
with  him  all  the  elderly  ladies  of  the  Rigi,  nodding,  in  their 
sleep,  their  curls,  or  those  lace  caps  like  the  crust  of  a  vol- 
au-vent  of  which  Englishwomen  are  so  fond,  and  which  is 
part  of  the  cant  voyageur. 

The  entrance  of  the  Alpinist  did  not  wake  them,  and  he 
himself  was  creeping  into  a  seat,  overcome  by  the  glacial 
atmosphere,  when  some  loud  and  cheering  sounds  proceeded 
from  the  vestibule,  where  three  musicians  (a  harp,  violin, 
and  flute — those  wandering  minstrels  of  such  piteous  mien, 
with  long  coats  down  to  their  heels,  who  frequent  Swiss 
hotels)  were  tuning  their  instruments.  At  the  very  first 
notes  our  hero  jumped  up  as  if  galvanised. 

"  Zou  1  bravo!  Go  ahead  with  the  music!  " 

There  he  was  in  an  instant,  opening  the  doors,  treating 
the  musicians  liberally  to  champagne,  feeling  somewhat 
intoxicated  himself,  though  he  drank  nothing,  with  this 
music,  which  gave  him  life.  He  imitated  the  cornet,  he 
imitated  the  harp,  snapped  his  fingers  together  above  his 
head,  rolled  his  eyes,  cut  a  few  capers,  to  the  profound 
astonishment  of  the  tourists  who  had  rushed  from  all  sides 
at  the  uproar.  Then,  roughly,  at  the  first  notes  of  one  of 
Strauss's  waltzes,  which  the  musicians  attacked  with  the 
fury  of  veritable  Tzigans,  the  Alpinist,  perceiving  at  the  door 
of  the  salon  the  wife  of  Professor  Schwanthaler,  a  little 
chubby  Viennese  lady,  sprightly  in  appearance  and  still 
young — notwithstanding  her  hair  was  sprinkled  with  grey — 
nished  at  her,  seized  her  round  the  waist,  and  dragged  her 
out,  calling  at  the  same  time  to  the  others,  "  Come,  then! 
waltz  away !  " 

The  impetus  was  given;  the  entire  hotel,  thawed  and 
tumultuous  now,  was  carried  away  by  it.  They  danced  in 
the  vestibule,  in  the  salon,  around  the  long  green  table  in 
the  reading-room.  And  it  was  this  devil  of  a  fellow  who 
had  set  them  all  going!    Nevertheless  he  danced  no  more; 


An  Improvised  Ball  loi 

he  was  out  of  breath  after  a  few  turns ;  but  he  superintended 
the  ballj  pressed  the  musicians,  made  up  the  couples  for  the 
dances,  threw  the  Professor  of  Bonn  into  the  arms  of  an  old 
Englishwoman,  and  the  most  frisky  of  the  Peruvian  young 
ladies  upon  the  austere  Astier-Rehu. 

Resistance  was  impossible.  This  terrible  Alpinist  carried 
you  away  in  a  perfect  whirlwind  1  "  Et  zou  !  et  zou  !  "  No 
more  disdain,  no  more  hatred.  There  were  now  neither 
Rices  nor  Prunes !  All  were  waltzers.  The  madness  quickly 
spread  and  reached  every  story;  and  in  the  enormous  bay 
of  the  staircase  might  have  been  seen,  up  to  the  sixth  Stage, 
turning  around  the  pilasters  with  the  rigidity  of  the  automata 
outside  a  musical  chalet,  the  heavy  coloured  gowns  of  the 
Swiss  female  servants ! 

Ah,  the  wind  may  blow  now  if  it  please !  let  it  shake  the 
lamps,  let  it  moan  and  whistle  through  the  telegraph  wires, 
and  whirl  the  snow  in  spiral  storms  over  the  deserted  summit 
of  the  mountain!  Here  all  is  warm  and  comfortable;  and 
all  were  settled  for  the  night, 

"  All  the  same,  I  will  go  to  bed  myself,"  thought  the 
worthy  mountaineer. 

He  seizes  his  key  and  his  chamber  candlestick;  at  the 
first  floor  he  pauses  a  moment  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  his  work, 
to  watch  the  crowd  of  stuck-up  people  whom  he  has  com- 
pelled to  amuse  and  unstiffen  themselves. 

A  Swiss  woman,  out  of  breath  with  her  interrupted  dance, 
presented  him  a  pen  and  the  hotel  register. 

"  If  I  may  venture  to  request  monsieur  to  inscribe  his 
name — ?  " 

He  hesitated  an  instant.  Must  he  do  so?  Cannot  he 
preserve  his  incognito  ? 

After  all,  what  matter?  Suppose  that  the  intelligence  of 
his  arrival  at  the  Rigi  should  reach  the  valleys,  no  one  will 
know  for  what  reason  he  had  come  to  Switzerland,  And 
then  what  a  joke  it  would  be  in  the  morning. 

He  took  the  pen,  and  with  a  careless  hand,  beneath  the 
names  of  Astier-Rehu,  Schwanthaler,  and  all  the  other  illus- 
trious personages,  he  signed  that  name  which  eclipsed  them 
all — his  own:  then  he  ascended  to  his  bedroom  without  even 
turning  round  to  see  the  effect  which  he  was  confident  he 
had  made. 


102  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

Behind  him  the  Swiss  waitress  was  reading — 

TARTARIN  DE  TARASCON  ; 

and  underneath  it — 

P.  C.  A. 

She  read  that,  this  Bernese  young  woman — and  was  not 
overcome.  She  did  not  know  what  P.  C.  A.  signified.  She 
had  never  heard  of  "  Dardarin." 

Savflge !  vai  ! 


II 


TARASCON,  FIVE  MINUTES  STOPPAGE — THE  ALPINE  CLUB — 
EXPLANATION  OF  P.  C.  A. — RABBITS  OF  THE  WARREN  AND 
OF    THE    CABBAGE-GARDEN — "  THIS    IS    MY    WILL  "—THE 

'■  SIROP     DE     CADAVRE  "  FIRST     ASCENT  —  TARTARIN 

MOUNTS  HIS  SPECTACLES 

When  the  name  of  "  Tarascon  "  vibrates  along  the  Paris, 
Lyons,  and  Mediterranean  Line,  and  in  the  clear  blue  vault 
of  the  Provenfal  sky,  heads  of  curious  people  are  protruded 
from  the  windows  of  the  carriages  of  the  express  train,  and 
from  compartment  to  compartment  the  travellers  say  to  each 
other— 

"  Ah,  this  is  Tarascon!  let  us  see  something  of  Tarascon."' 
What  they  do  see  of  it  is,  however,  nothing  out  of  the 
common:  a  small,  quiet,  clean  town,  some  turrets,  some 
roofs,  a  bridge  over  the  Rhone.  But  the  Tarascon  sunlight 
and  its  wonderful  mirage  effects,  so  fruitful  in  surprises,  in 
inventions,  in  bewildering  cocasserics ;  the  cheerful  little 
-inhabitants,  scarcely  bigger  than  a  chick-pea,  who  reflect  and 
epitomise  the  instincts  of  all  the  French  people  of  the  South, 
are  lively,  brisk,  chatty,  imaginative,  comic,  impressionable, 
— that  is  what  the  passengers  by  the  express  get  a  glimpse 
of,  and  that  is  what  makes  the  place  popular. 

In  certain  memorable  pages  which  our  modesty  prevents 
us   from   particularising,   the   historiographer   of   Tarascon 


The  Alpine  Club  103 

formerly  attempted  to  depict  those  pleasant  days  at  the  little 
club,  singing  its  "  romances  " — every  one  his  own — and  in 
default  of  game,  organising  curious  shooting-parties  d  la 
casquette}  Then  the  war  came— the  "  black  times,"  as 
they  call  it  at  Tarascon — -its  heroic  defence,  the  torpedo-lined 
esplanade,  the  club  and  the  Cafe  de  la  Comedie  rendered 
impregnable ;  all  the  inhabitants  enrolled  as  Free  Companions 
— embellished  with  death's  heads  and  cross-bones,  all  beards 
grown,  and  such  a  display  made  of  hatchets,  cutlasses,  and 
American  revolvers,  that  the  unfortunate  inhabitants  were 
afraid  to  venture  out  in  the  streets  for  fear  of  each  other. 

Many  years  have  passed  since  the  war,  many  almanacs 
have  been  burned,  but  Tarascon  has  not  been  forgotten;  and 
renouncing  the  futile  distractions  of  a  past  time,  only  con- 
siders how  to  turn  its  blood  and  muscle  to  profit  in  future 
revenge. 

At  length  the  old  club  itself,  abjuring  boiiillotte  and  besigue, 
was  transformed  into  the  Alpine  Club,  after  the  pattern  of 
the  famous  Alpine  Club  in  London,  whose  members  have 
sustained  its  renown  even  in  the  Indies. 

There  is,  however,  this  difference  between  the  clubs — that 
the  Tarasconnais,  instead  of  expatriating  themselves  with 
the  view  of  conquering  strange  and  distant  mountains,  are 
content  with  what  they  have  in  their  hands,  or  rather  under 
their  feet,  at  the  gates  of  their  town. 

The  Alps  of  Tarascon?  No,  but  the  Alpines,  that  chain  of 
little  hills  perfumed  with  thyme  and  lavender;  neither  very 
difficult  nor  very  high  (some  450  to  600  feet  in  elevation  above 
the  level  of  the  sea),  which  form  a  horizon  of  blue  waves  to  the 
Provencal  roads,  and  which  the  local  imagination  has  supplied 
with  fabulous  and  characteristic  names,  such  as  le  Mont- 
Terrible,  le  Bout-du-Monde,  le  Pic-des-Gednts,  etc. 

It  is  a  pleasant  sight  on  a  Sunday  morning  to  see  the 
Tarasconnais  fully  accoutred,  with  ice-axe,  knapsack,  and 

*  This  is  what  was  said  of  the  local  sport  in  the  Prodigious  Adventures 
of  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  : 

"  After  a  good  breakfast  in  the  open  country  each  one  of  the  sports- 
men took  his  cap,  threw  it  with  all  his  strength  into  the  air,  and  fired 
at  it  '  flying  '  with  No.  5,  No.  6,  or  No.  2  shot,  according  to  the  regula- 
tions. He  who  hit  his  cap  oftenest  was  proclaimed  King  of  the  Sport, 
and  returned  in  the  evening  to  Tarascon  in  triumph — his  riddled  cap 
at  the  end  of  his  gun — amidst  the  barking  of  dogs  and  the  flourish  of 
trumpets." 


I04  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

tent  on  his  back,  go  forth,  preceded  by  clarions,  to  make 
the  ascent  of  which  the  Forum — the  local  journal — gives  such 
a  flourishing  and  descriptive  account,  with  an  exaggeration 
of  epithets,  "  abysses,  ravines,  terrible  gorges,"  as  if  it  were 
describing  an  ascent  in  the  Himalayas.  Just  think  that  in 
this  pastime  the  natives  have  acquired  new  strength,  the 
"  double  muscles  "  formerly  the  attributes  of  the  good,  brave, 
heroic  Tartarin  only. 

If  Tarascon  epitomised  the  South,  Tartarin  epitomised 
Tarascon.  He  was  not  only  the  first  citizen  of  the  town,  he 
was  its  soul,  its  genius;  he  knew  all  about  it.  He  was 
acquainted  with  its  ancient  exploits,  its  triumphs  of  song  (oh 
that  duet  from  Robert  le  Diable  at  the  chemist's !),  with  the 
astounding  Odyssey  of  its  lion-hunts  from  which  he  brought 
back  that  splendid  camel,  the  last  in  Algeria,  which  has  since 
died  full  of  years  and  honours,  the  skeleton  of  which  is  in 
the  town  museum  amongst  the  Tarasconnais  curiosities. 

Tartarin  himself  had  not  deteriorated;  he  had  still  good 
teeth,  a  bright  eye,  notwithstanding  his  fifty  years;  and 
always  conserved  that  extraordinary  imagination  which 
brought  near  and  enlarged  objects  with  the  power  of  a  tele- 
scope. It  was  of  him  that  the  brave  commander  Bravida 
said,  "  C'est  un  lapin." 

Two  rabbits,  rather.  For  in  Tartarin,  as  in  all  the  Taras- 
connais, there  is  a  warren  and  a  cabbage  breed,  very  clearly 
marked.  The  rabbit  of  the  warren  is  a  rover — an  adven- 
turous animal;  the  cabbage-rabbit  is  domesticated — a  stay- 
at-home,  having  an  extraordinary  horror  of  fatigue,  of 
draughts,  and  of  all  the  contingencies  which  may  bring  death 
in  their  train. 

We  all  know  that  this  prudence  never  prevented  him  from 
showing  himself  brave,  and  ever  heroic,  on  occasion;  but  it 
is  quite  permissible  to  inquire  what  business  he  had  on  the 
Rigi  (Regina  montium)  at  his  age,  when  he  had  so  dearly 
purchased  the  right  to  his  ease  and  comfort. 

To  such  a  question  the  infamous  Costecalde  only  could 
reply. 

Costecalde,  a  gun-maker  by  trade,  represented  a  type  rare 
in  Tarascon.  Envy — base,  malignant  envy — visible  in  the 
curl  of  the  thin  lips,  and  in  a  kind  of  yellow  steam  which, 
rising  from  the  liver  in  puffs,  swelled  his  large,  shaven  face  into 


Costecalde's  Envy  105 

uneven  ridges  as  if  produced  by  the  blows  of  a  hammer — like 
an  ancient  medal  of  Tiberius  or  Caracalla.  Envy  with  him 
was  a  disease  which  he  did  not  even  attempt  to  hide^  and 
with  that  fine  Tarasconic  temperament,  which  is  gushing 
enough,  he  used  to  say  when  speaking  of  his  infirmity,  "  You 
do  not  know  how  bad  it  is !  " 

Costecalde's  tormentor  naturally  was  Tartarin.  All  that 
glory  for  one  man!  To  him  ever;  always  to  him!  And 
slowly,  surely,  like  the  termite  in  the  gilded  wood  of  the  idol, 
for  twenty  years  he  had  been  sapping  and  undermining  this 
great  reputation,  moth-eating  it  as  it  were.  When  in  the 
evening,  at  the  club,  Tartarin  would  relate  his  combats 
with  the  lion,  his  hunting  in  the  Sahara,  Costecalde  would 
indulge  in  little  sniggering  laughs,  and  incredulous  shakes 
of  the  head. 

"  But  the  skins  at  least,  Costecalde,  the  lion-skins  which 
he  sent  us,  which  are  yonder  in  the  club-room?  " 

"  Te  I  pardi.  And  the  furs;  do  not  you  think  that  there 
is  any  want  of  them  in  Algeria?  " 

"  But  the  marks  of  the  bullets,  quite  round,  in  the 
heads?" 

"  And  on  the  other  hand,  was  it  not  at  the  time  of  our 
cap-hunting  that  we  used  to  find,  in  the  hatters'  shops,  caps 
with  bullet-holes,  and  riddled  with  shot,  for  the  unskilful 
marksmen?  " 

No  doubt  the  fame  of  Tartarin,  the  beast-slayer,  remained 
superior  to  these  attacks;  but  the  Alpinist  in  his  own  house 
listened  to  all  the  criticism,  and  Costecalde  did  not  spare  him, 
furious  that  they  had  named  as  President  of  the  Alpine  Club 
a  man  who  was  ageing  visibly,  and  whose  habits,  contracted 
in  Algeria,  disposed  him  to  laziness. 

Rarely  did  Tartarin  take  part  in  any  of  the  ascents;  he 
contented  himself  by  accompanying  the  climbers  with  his 
good  wishes,  and  in  reading  to  the  full  assembly,  with  much 
rolling  of  eyes,  and  emphasis  which  made  ladies  grow  pale, 
the  dramatic  records  of  the  expeditions. 

Costecalde,  on  the  contrary,  dry,  muscular,  nervous, 
"  Jambe  de  coq^'  as  they  called  him,  always  climbed  first  of  all  : 
he  had  made  all  the  ascents  of  the  Alpines  one  by  one,  and 
had  planted  upon  their  lofty  summits  the  flag  of  the  club, 
the  silver-spangled  Tarasqiie  or  dragon.     Nevertheless,  he 


io6  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

was  only  the  Vice-President  (V.  P.  C.  A.),  but  he  was  working 
so  well  that  evidently  at  the  next  election  Tartarin  would 
be  ousted. 

Advised  of  this  by  his  associates,  our  hero  was  at  first 
terribly  disgusted;  the  evil  spirit  which  ingratitude  and 
injustice  will  raise  in  the  best  minds  seized  upon  him.  He 
had  a  great  mind  to  give  the  whole  thing  up — to  emigrate 
— to  cross  the  bridge,  and  live  in  Beaucaire  amongst  the 
Volsques.    But  he  grew  calmer  after  a  while. 

To  leave  his  little  house,  his  garden,  his  cherished  habits, 
to  renounce  his  chair  as  President  of  the  Alpine  Club  he  had 
founded,  to  give  up  the  majestic  P.  C.  A.  which  embellished 
and  distinguished  his  card,  his  writing  paper,  even  the  lining 
of  his  hat !  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of !  It  was  impossible ! 
Ve  !  Then  suddenly  there  occurred  to  him  a  perfectly  miracu- 
lous notion. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  exploits  of  Costecalde  were  confined 
to  his  expeditions  in  the  Alpines.  Why  should  not  Tartarin, 
during  the  three  months  which  must  intervene  between  that 
time  and  the  election,  attempt  some  grand  adventure  ?  why 
should  not  he  plant  upon  the  highest  summits  in  Europe  (the 
Jungfrau  and  Mont  Blanc  for  instance)  the  banner  of  his 
club? 

What  a  triumph  would  await  him  on  his  return,  what  a 
slap  in  the  face  it  would  be  for  Costecalde  when  the  Forum 
would  have  published  the  narrative  of  the  ascent!  How 
after  that  could  he  dare  to  dispute  the  possession  of  the 
chairmanship? 

With  all  speed  he  went  to  work:  he  had  sent  to  him 
secretly  from  Paris  a  number  of  special  works,  such  as 
Whymper's  Scrambles  in  the  Alps,  Tyndall's  Among  the 
Glaciers,  Stephen  d'Axve's  Mont  Blanc,  the  Alpine  Journals 
(both  Swiss  and  English);  and  he  fuddled  his  brain  with  a 
string  of  Alpine  terms, — chimneys,  couloirs,  moulins,  neve, 
seracs,  moraines,  rotiires, — without  knowing  precisely  what 
they  all  meant. 

At  night  his  dreams  were  disturbed  by  interminable 
glissades,  and  sheer  falls  into  bottomless  crevasses!  Ava- 
lanches overwhelmed  him;  aretes  of  ice  impaled  his  body  on 
the  way;  and  long  after  he  was  awake  and  had  consumed 
his  morning  chocolate,  which  he  always  took  in  bed,  he 


A  New  Expedition  107 

retained  the  agony  and  the  oppression  of  the  nightmare. 
But  that  did  not  deter  him,  once  he  had  got  up,  from 
devoting  his  morning  to  the  laborious  exercise  of  getting 
into  training. 

There  is  all  around  Tarascon  a  road  planted  with  trees, 
which  in  the  local  parlance  is  called  "  le  tour  de  ville.'^  Every 
Sunday,  in  the  afternoon,  the  residents,  who  despite  their 
imaginativeness  are  a  regular  people,  always  make  the  tour 
of  the  town,  and  always  in  the  same  way.  Tartarin  trained 
himself  by  doing  it  eight  or  ten  times  in  the  morning,  and 
often  even  in  the  opposite  direction!  He  proceeded  with 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  taking  short  steps  as  on  a  moun- 
tain, slow  and  sure,  and  the  stall-keepers,  horrified  at  this 
infraction  of  the  local  custom,  lost  themselves  in  speculations 
of  the  most  complicated  character. 

At  home,  in  his  own  garden,  he  practised  leaping  crevasses 
by  jumping  over  the  little  basin  wherein  some  water-lilies 
floated;  on  two  occasions  he  fell  in,  and  was  obliged  to  go 
and  change  his  clothes.  These  drawbacks  only  excited  him 
to  fresh  effort,  and,  risking  vertigo,  he  walked  along  the 
narrow  rim  of  the  basin,  to  the  manifest  alarm  of  the  old 
servant,  who  could  by  no  means  understand  all  these 
performances. 

At  the  same  time  he  ordered  from  Avignon  crampons,  sucli 
as  are  recommended  by  Whymper,  for  his  boots,  and  an 
ice-axe  of  the  Kennedy  pattern;  he  also  procured  a  cooking- 
lamp,  two  waterproof  coverings,  and  two  hundred  feet  of 
rope  of  his  own  invention,  twisted  with  iron  wire. 

The  arrival  of  these  different  articles,  the  mysterious 
comings  and  goings  which  their  manufacture  necessitated, 
exercised  the  Tarasconnais  very  greatly.  It  was  reported  in 
the  town  that  the  President  was  preparing  a  coup.  But  of 
what  nature?  Something  great  for  certain,  for  according  to 
the  brave  and  sententious  commandant  Bravida,  a  retired 
captain  who  only  dealt  in  apophthegms,  "  The  eagle  does 
not  hunt  flies  !  " 

With  his  most  intimate  friends  Tartarin  remained  impene- 
trable; but  at  the  club  meetings  they  would  remark  the 
trembling  of  his  voice  and  his  flashing  eyes  when  he  spoke 
to  Costecalde — an  indirect  result  of  this  new  expedition,  of 
which  the  dangers  and  fatigues  became  more  accentuated  as 


io8  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

the  time  drew  nearer.  The  unlucky  man  did  not  conceal 
them  from  himself,  and  he  looked  at  them  in  such  lugubrious 
colours  that  he  put  his  affairs  in  order  and  wrote  his  last 
wishes,  the  expression  of  which  costs  the  Tarasconnais,  who 
love  their  lives,  so  much  that  they  generally  die  intestate ! 

So  one  morning  in  June,  a  bright,  sunny  day,  without  a 
cloud  in  the  sky,  the  door  of  the  study  open  to  the  neat  little 
garden  with  its  sanded  walks,  on  which  the  exotic  plants 
threw  clearly-defined  shadows,  in  which  a  tiny  jet  of  water 
trickled  amid  the  joyous  cries  of  the  Savoyards  who  were 
playing  at  marelle  before  the  gate, — on  that  morning  see 
Tartarin  in  slippers,  and  easy  flannel  costume,  happy, 
satisfied,  smoking  a  favourite  pipe,  and  reading  aloud  as  he 
wrote, — 

"  This  is  my  will." 

One  had  need  to  have  a  heart  firm  in  its  place  and  solidly 
fixed;  these  are  cruel  moments!  Nevertheless,  neither  his 
hand  nor  his  voice  shook,  while  he  devised  to  the  citizens 
all  the  ethnographical  riches  treasured  in  his  little  house, 
carefully  dusted  and  kept  in  first-rate  order, — 

"  To  the  Alpine  Club,  the  baobab  (Arbos  gigantea),  to  be 
placed  on  the  chimney-piece  of  the  hall  of  science. 

"  To  Bravida,  my  fowling-pieces,  revolvers,  hunting- 
knives,  Malay  knives,  tomahawks,  and  other  deadly  weapons. 

"  To  Excourbani^s,  all  my  pipes,  calumets,  narghiles,  and 
little  pipes  for  kif  and  opium  smoking. 

"  To  Costecalde — yes,  Costecalde  himself  had  his  legacy — 
the  famous  poisoned  arrows.    (Mind  you  don't  touch  them !)  " 

Perhaps  Tartarin  had  a  secret  hope  that  the  man  would 
touch  them  and  die,  but  no  such  idea  was  evidenced  in  the 
will,  which  closed  with  these  words  of  divine  mansuetude, — 

"  I  beg  my  dear  Alpinists  not  to  forget  their  president.  I 
hope  they  will  forgive  my  mortal  enemy  as  I  forgive  him, 
although  it  is  he,  nevertheless,  who  has  occasioned  my 
death." 

Here  Tartarin  was  compelled  to  stop,  blinded  by  his  tears. 
For  one  moment  he  seemed  to  see  himself  a  mangled  mass 
at  the  foot  of  some  lofty  mountain,  picked  up  in  a  wheel- 
barrow, and  his  shapeless  remains  carried  to  Tarascon.  Oh, 
power  of  the  Provencal  imagination !  he  was  assisting  at  his 
own  funeral,  listening  to  the  chants  for  the  dead,  the  discourse 


The  Departure  109 

at  the  grave.  "  Poor  Tartarin !  pecJiere  !  "  And  lost  amid 
the  crowd  of  his  friends,  he  began  to  weep  for  himself! 

But  almost  immediately  the  sight  of  his  study,  filled  with 
sunlight,  glittering  with  weapons  and  rows  of  pipes,  the  song 
of  the  little  jet  d'eau  in  the  garden,  brought  him  back  to  the 
reality  of  things.  On  the  other  hand,  why  should  he  die.'' 
why  even  go  away?  Who  compelled  him  to  do  so,  if  not 
his  own  self-respect?  To  risk  his  life  for  a  presidential 
chair  and  three  letters ! 

But  this  was  only  weakness,  and  did  not  last  longer  than 
the  other  impression.  At  the  end  of  five  minutes  the  will 
was  finished,  signed,  and  sealed  with  an  enormous  black  seal, 
and  the  great  man  then  made  the  last  preparations  for  his 
departure. 

Once  again  Tartarin  of  the  warren  had  triumphed  over 
Tartarin  of  the  cabbage-garden.  And  we  might  say  of  this 
Tarascon  hero  what  was  said  of  Turenne:  "  His  body  was 
not  always  ready  to  go  into  battle,  but  his  soul  carried  him 
there  in  spite  of  himself." 

On  the  evening  of  that  very  day,  as  the  last  stroke  of  ten 
was  sounding  from  the  maison  de  ville,  and  the  streets, 
already  deserted,  were  clear  except  for  here  and  there  a 
belated  one  knocking  for  admission,  a  gruff  voice  half 
strangled  with  fear  cried  in  the  dark,  "  Good-night,  mi 
mouain"  and  then,  with  a  sudden  closing  of  the  door,  a 
pedestrian  glided  through  the  darkened  town  where  the 
fronts  of  the  houses  were  only  illuminated  by  the  red  and 
green  tints  brightly  reflected  from  the  bottles  in  Bezuquet's 
shop,  which  were  projected  with  the  silhouette  of  the  chemist 
himself,  with  his  elbows  on  his  desk,  and  sleeping  on  the 
Codex.  He  indulged  in  a  little  nap  every  evening  in  this 
manner,  from  nine  till  ten,  so  that — as  he  said — he  might  be 
all  the  fresher  at  night,  should  any  one  require  his  services. 
Between  ourselves,  this  was  a  mere  Tarasconnade,  for  no  one 
ever  called  him  up,  and  indeed  he  had  himself  severed  the 
wire  of  the  night-bell  in  order  that  he  might  sleep  the  more 
soundly. 

Suddenly  Tartarin  entered,  wrapped  up,  his  travelling-bag 
in  his  hand,  and  so  pale,  so  discomposed,  that  the  chemist, 
with  that  vivid  local  imagination  of  which  the  shop  did  not 


I  lo  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

deprive  him,  believed  that  some  fearful  and  terrible  thing 
had  happened. 

"Unhappy  man!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  is  the  matter? 
You  have  been  poisoned?     Quick,  quick,  the  ipecacuanha!  " 

He  was  hurrying  off,  upsetting  his  bottles,  when  Tartarin, 
to  stop  him,  was  obliged  to  hold  him  round  the  body:  "  Just 
listen  now,  que  diable  !  " — and  in  his  sharp  tones  the  spite- 
fulness  of  the  actor  who  has  made  a  bad  entrance  was 
manifest.  The  chemist  once  again  brought  back  to  his 
counter  by  an  iron  hand,  Tartarin  whispered, — 

"  Are  we  alone,  Bezuquet?  " 

"  Be  out  !  "  replied  the  other,  looking  about  him  in  vague 
terror.  "  Pascalon  has  gone  to  bed  (Pascalon  was  his  pupil), 
and  mother  also — But  why?  " 

"  Shut  your  shutters,"  said  Tartarin  in  a  commanding 
tone,  without  replying  to  the  question.  "  They  can  see  us 
from  outside." 

Bezuquet  obeyed,  trembling.  He  was  an  old  bachelor, 
living  with  his  mother,  whom  he  had  never  quitted;  he  was 
as  timid  and  gentle  as  a  girl,  and  his  demeanour  contrasted 
strangely  with  his  swarthy  face  and  thick  lips,  his  immense 
hooked  nose,  which  bent  over  his  long  moustache — a  head 
of  an  Algerian  pirate  before  the  conquest.  These  antitheses 
are  common  in  Tarascon,  where  the  heads  possess  too  much 
of  the  Roman  and  Saracenic  character:  heads  with  the  ex- 
pression of  models  in  a  school  of  design,  unfitted  to  mere 
tradespeople  and  the  ultra-pacific  manners  of  the  little  town. 

Thus  it  was  that  Excourbani^s,  who  had  the  air  of  one  of 
the  bold  companions  of  Pizarro,  was  a  mercer,  and  rolled 
flaming  yellow  eyes  when  measuring  off  two  yards  of  thread ; 
and  that  Bezuquet,  labelling  the  Spanish  liquorice  and  the 
sirupus  gummi,  resembled  an  ancient  rover  of  the  Barbary 
coast. 

When  the  shutters  had  been  closed,  and  fastened  with  bolt 
and  bar,  Tartarin  said,  "  Listen,  Ferdinand,"  for  he  had  a 
habit  of  calling  people  by  their  Christian  names.  Then  he 
arose  and  "  emptied  his  heart,"  which  was  full  of  bitterness 
against  his  associates.  He  related  the  low  manoeuvres  of 
"  Jambe  de  coq,^^  the  trick  which  they  wished  to  play  him  at 
the  next  election,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  hoped  to 
checkmate  them. 


Sirop  de  Cadavre  1 1  i 

In  the  first  place,  it  was  most  important  to  keep  the  matter 
a  secret,  and  not  reveal  it  until  the  precise  moment  which 
would  determine  the  success  of  the  plan  had  arrived, 
always  except  in  case  of  an  accident — one  of  those  fearful 
catastrophes — "Eh!  coquin  de  sort,  Bezuquet;  don't  whistle 
like  that  while  I  am  speaking." 

This  was  one  of  the  chemist's  little  habits.  Being  taciturn 
by  nature — a  phenomenon  in  Tarascon — he  gained  the  con- 
fidence of  the  President;  his  big  lips,  always  like  an  O, 
preserved  the  habit  of  a  continual  whistling,  which  seemed 
to  ridicule  every  one,  even  in  the  most  solemn  moments. 

And  while  the  hero  was  alluding  to  his  possible  death,  and 
saying,  as  he  placed  the  folded,  sealed  packet  upon  the  table, 
"  My  last  wishes  are  declared  here,  Bezuquet:  I  have  chosen 
you  as  the  executor  of  my  will " 

"  Hu,  hu,  hu,"  whistled  the  chemist,  carried  away  by  his 
mania,  but  really  very  much  moved,  and  quite  appreciating 
the  importance  of  the  part  he  had  to  play. 

Then  the  hour  of  departure  approached:  he  wished  to 
drink  success  to  the  enterprise—"  something  good,  que  ?  a 
glass  of  the  Garus  Elixir."  After  many  cupboards  had  been 
opened  and  searched,  he  remembered  that  his  mother  had 
the  keys  of  the  Garus.  It  would  be  necessary  to  wake  her,  and 
tell  who  was  there.  So  a  substitute  for  the  elixir  was  found 
in  a  glass  of  the  syrup  of  Calabria,  a  summer  beverage,  modest 
and  inoffensive,  of  which  Bezuquet  was  the  inventor,  and 
which  was  advertised  in  the  Forum  as  "  Strop  de  Calabre,  ten 
sous  the  bottle,  including  a  glass"!  ''Sirop  de  Cadavre,'' 
that  infernal  Costecalde  would  say,  for  he  sneered  at  all 
successes:  for  the  rest,  this  abominable  play  upon  the  words 
only  aided  the  sale,  and  the  Tarasconnais  were  exceedingly 
fond  of  this  sirop  de  Cadavre. 

The  libation  performed,  a  few  last  words  exchanged,  the 
friends  tore  themselves  asunder.  Bezuquet  was  still  whistling 
through  his  moustache,  while  great  tears  were  rolling  down 
his  cheeks. 

"  Adieu,  an  mouain,''  said  Tartarin  in  a  rough  voice, 
feeling  as  if  he  were  about  to  weep  also ;  and  as  the  shutter 
of  the  door  had  been  put  up,  the  hero  was  obliged  to  leave 
the  shop  on  all  fours. 

The  trials  of  his  journey  were  already  commencing. 


1 1 2  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

Three  days  later  he  disembarked  at  Vitznau,  at  the  foot  of 
the  Rigi.  As  a  preHminary  canter  to  get  into  training  for 
mountaineerings  the  Rigi  attracted  him  because  of  its  low 
altitude  (1800  metres,  about  ten  times  the  height  of  Mont- 
Terrible,  the  most  elevated  peak  of  the  Alpines  !),  and  also 
because  of  the  splendid  panorama  which  is  obtainable  from 
the  summit,  all  the  Bernese  Alps  seated,  white  and  rosy, 
round  the  lakes,  waiting  till  the  climber  shall  make  his  choice, 
and  throw  his  ice-axe  at  one  of  them. 

Sure  of  being  recognised  en  route,  and  perhaps  followed — 
for  it  was  a  weakness  of  his  to  fancy  he  was  as  well-known 
throughout  France  as  he  was  celebrated  and  popular  in  Taras- 
con — he  had  made  a  wide  detour  to  reach  Switzerland,  and 
did  not  "  harness  "  himself  until  he  had  crossed  the  frontier. 
It  was  a  good  thing  he  did  not,  as  his  "  armament  "  could 
never  be  contained  in  a  French  railway  compartment. 

But,  however  commodious  the  Swiss  railway  carriages  may 
be,  the  Alpinist,  embarrassed  by  implements  to  the  use  of 
which  he  was  quite  unaccustomed,  stabbed  people's  toes  with 
the  point  of  his  alpenstock,  harpooned  others  with  his 
crampons,  and  everywhere  he  went,  in  the  railway  stations, 
the  hotels,  or  on  the  steamer,  he  excited  as  much  astonish- 
ment as  cursing,  elbowing,  and  angry  looks,  which  he  could 
not  understand,  and  which  were  torture  to  his  candid  and 
affectionate  nature.  To  sum  up,  there  was  a  leaden  sky, 
heavy  clouds,  and  a  pelting  rain. 

It  rained  at  Bale,  where  the  houses  are  washed  and  re- 
washed  by  servants  and  the  water  from  heaven ;  it  rained  at 
Lucerne,  on  the  quay  where  the  mails  and  luggage  seemed 
to  be  just  recovered  from  a  wreck;  and  when  he  reached 
Vitznau,  on  the  brink  of  the  Lake  of  the  Four  Cantons,  there 
was  the  same  deluge  falling  upon  the  green  slopes  of  the  Rigi, 
encircled  by  black  clouds,  with  torrents  dashing  over  the 
rocks,  making  cascades  in  dust-like  spray,  dropping  from  all 
the  stones  and  from  every  fir-branch.  Tartarin  had  never 
seen  so  much  water  before. 

He  entered  an  auberge,  and  was  served  with  some  cafe  au 
lait,  honey,  and  butter,  the  only  really  good  things  that  he 
had  so  far  enjoyed  in  his  journey.  Then,  once  more  refreshed, 
his  beard  cleared  of  some  honey  by  means  of  a  comer  of  his 
serviette,  he  made  preparations  to  attempt  his  first  ascent. 


The  First  Ascent  113 

"  And  now,"  said  he,  as  he  was  packing  up  his  sac,  "  how 
long  will  it  take  me  to  get  to  the  top  of  the  Rigi  ?  " 

"  An  hour  or  an  hour  and  a  quarter,  monsieur.  But  you 
must  make  haste;  the  train  will  start  in  five  minutes." 

"  A  train  up  the  Rigi!     You  are  joking!  " 

Through  the  leaden-sashed  window  of  the  auberge  she 
showed  him  the  train  which  was  about  to  ascend.  Two 
large  covered  waggons  without  windows,  pushed  by  a  loco- 
motive with  a  short  chimney  and  with  a  kettle-shaped  body 
— a  monstrous  insect  clinging  to  the  mountain,  and  getting 
quite  out  of  breath  in  its  attempt  to  climb  the  steep  sides. 

The  two  Tartarins — the  wild  and  the  domestic  species — 
were  shocked  at  the  idea  of  ascending  in  this  hideous  machine. 
One  thought  it  ridiculous  to  climb  the  Alps  in  a  lift:  as  for 
the  other,  the  light  bridges  which  carry  the  line  over  chasms, 
with  the  prospect  of  a  fall  of  a  thousand  feet  if  the  train  left 
the  metals  ever  so  little,  inspired  him  with  all  kinds  of  sad 
reflections,  which  found  reason  for  the  establishment  of  the 
little  cemetery  at  Vitznau,  the  tombs  in  which  are  squeezed 
together  at  the  bottom  of  the  slope  like  the  linen  displayed 
in  the  courtyard  of  a  laundry.  Evidently  this  cemetery  is 
established  as  a  matter  of  precaution,  so  that  in  case  of  acci- 
dent travellers  may  find  it  quite  convenient. 

"  I'll  go  up  on  foot,"  said  the  valiant  Tarasconnais.  "  It 
will  give  me  some  exercise.     Zoii !  " 

And  so  he  went,  very  much  pre-occupied  by  his  alpen- 
stock in  the  presence  of  the  staff  of  the  auberge,  who 
ran  to  the  door  shouting  to  him  the  way,  indications 
which  he  never  heard.  He  first  pursued  an  ascending  path, 
paved  with  great  pebbles,  of  unequal  sizes,  pointed,  as  in  a 
Southern  lane,  and  bordered  with  wooden  channels  to  permit 
the  escape  of  the  rain-water. 

To  right  and  left  are  fine  orchards,  grassy  meadows  crossed 
by  these  same  irrigating  pipes  made  from  trunks  of  trees. 
This  arrangement  causes  a  continual  splashing  of  water  from 
the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  mountain,  and  every  time  that 
the  ice-axe  of  the  Alpinist  caught  in  the  low  branches  of  an 
oak  or  chestnut  his  cap  crackled  as  if  subjected  to  a  shower 
from  a  watering-pot. 

"  Diou !  what  a  quantity  of  water!  "  sighed  the  man  of 
the  South.     But  things  became  worse  when  the  paved  way 


I  14  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

ceased,  for  then  he  was  obhged  to  pick  his  way  through  the 
torrent,  to  leap  from  one  stone  to  another,  so  as  not  to  wet 
his  gaiters.  Then  the  downpour  hindered  him,  penetrating, 
continuous;  and  it  seemed  to  get  colder  as  he  ascended. 
When  he  stopped  to  take  breath,  he  could  hear  nothing  but 
the  rushing  of  the  water  in  which  he  stood,  half-drowned, 
and  when  he  turned  round  he  could  see  the  black  clouds 
united  to  the  lake  by  long  fine  rods  of  glass,  through  which 
the  chalets  of  Vitznau  glistened  like  freshly  varnished  toy- 
houses. 

Several  men  and  children  passed  close  by,  some  with  heads 
bent  down  and  backs  curved  under  the  hod  of  white  wood 
containing  supplies  for  some  villa  or  pension,  whose  balconies 
could  be  perceived  mid-way.  "  To  the  Rigi-Kulm.?  "  asked 
Tartarin,  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  in  the  right  direction; 
but  his  extraordinary  equipment,  and  particularly  the 
knitted  comforter  which  shrouded  his  face,  alarmed  those 
he  addressed,  and  every  one  of  them,  after  staring  at  him 
with  wide-open  eyes,  hurried  upwards  without  replying. 

Tliese  meetings  soon  became  few  and  far  between:  the 
last  human  being  he  encountered,  was  an  old  woman  who 
was  washing  some  linen  in  the  trunk  of  a  tree  under  the 
shade  of  an  enormous  red  umbrella  fixed  in  the  ground. 

"  Rigi-Kulm?  "  asked  the  Alpinist. 

The  old  woman  raised  to  his  a  terrified  and  idiotic  face, 
bearing  a  goitre  which  hung  from  her  neck,  as  large  as  the 
bell  of  a  Swiss  cow :  then  after  having  taken  a  long  look  at 
him  she  burst  into  a  peal  of  inextinguishable  laughter,  which 
stretched  her  mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  puckering  up  her  little 
eyes;  and  every  time  that  she  opened  them  again,  the  sight 
of  Tartarin  standing  before  her,  his  ice-axe  on  his  shoulder, 
seemed  to  redouble  her  mirth. 

"  Tron  de  Voir  !  "  growled  the  Tarasconnais,  "  it's  lucky 
she's  a  woman;  "  and  bursting  with  rage  he  continued  his 
route,  losing  his  way  in  a  pine  wood,  where  his  boots  slipped 
upon  the  soaking  moss. 

Beyond  that,  the  scene  changed.  No  more  paths,  no  trees 
nor  pastures.  A  few  mournful  slopes,  bare,  but  sustaining 
great  boulders,  which  he  was  obliged  to  scale  on  hands  and 
knees  for  fear  of  falling;  morasses  full  of  yellow  mud,  which 
he  crossed  slowly,  testing  the  quagmire  with  his  alpenstock, 


The  First  Ascent  i  15 

and  lifting  his  feet  like  a  knife-grinder.  Every  moment  he 
consulted  the  compass  which  hung  as  a  charm  to  h's  watch- 
chain  ;  but,  whether  owing  to  the  altitude  or  to  the  variations 
of  the  temperature,  the  needle  seemed  defective.  He  had  no 
means  by  which  he  could  take  his  bearings,  for  the  thick 
yellow  fog  that  prevented  him  from  seeing  ten  paces  in  any 
direction,  was  penetrated  by  a  thick,  cold  sleet,  which  made 
the  ascent  more  and  more  laborious. 

Suddenly  he  halted,  the  ground  was  white  in  front.  Take 
care  of  your  eyes !     He  had  come  to  the  snow-line ! 

Immediately  he  drew  his  glasses  from  their  case  and 
adjusted  them  firmly.  The  moment  was  a  solemn  one. 
Somewhat  nervous,  but  proud  all  the  same,  Tartarin  felt 
that  at  one  bound  he  had  ascended  3000  feet  towards  the 
peaks  and  their  dangers ! 

He  advanced  with  great  precaution,  thinking  of  the 
crevasses  and  the  rotures  of  which  he  had  read,  and  in  his 
heart  of  hearts  cursing  the  people  of  the  auberge,  who  had 
advised  him  to  ascend  straight  up  without  a  guide. 

Night  would  surprise  him  on  the  mountain.  Could  he  find 
a  hut,  or  only  the  projection  of  a  rock,  to  shelter  himself.? 
Suddenly  he  perceived,  on  the  wild  and  desolate  platform,  a 
kind  of  wooden  chalet,  bound  with  a  placard  bearing  enormous 
letters,  which  he  deciphered  with  difficulty:  Pho — to — gra 
— PHiE  Du  Ri — Gi — KuLM.  At  the  same  moment  the 
immense  hotel  with  its  three  hundred  windows  became 
visible  to  him  a  little  farther  on  between  the  great  lamps, 
which  burned  brightly  in  the  fog. 


1423 


I  1 6  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 


III 

AN  ALARM  ON  THE  RIGI — BE  COOL !  BE  COOL ! — THE  ALPINE 
HORN — WHAT  TARTARIN  FOUND  ON  HIS  LOOKING-GLASS 
WHEN  HE  AWOKE— PERPLEXITY — HE  ASKS  FOR  A  GUIDE 
BY   TELEPHONE 

"  Ques  aco  ?    Who  goes  there?"  cried  Tartarin,  Hstening 
attentively,  and  with  eyes  wide  open  in  the  dark. 

The  pattering  of  many  feet  was  audible  in  the  hotel — 
doors  banged — sounds  of  pufhng — blowing — cries  of  "  Make 
haste !  " — while  out  of  doors  was  a  blowing  of  horns,  and  a 
rush  of  flame  lighted  up  the  windows  and  the  curtains. 
Fire! 

With  a  single  bound  Tartarin  was  out  of  bed,  and,  rapidly 
shod  and  dressed,  gained  the  still  gas-lit  staircase,  where  he 
found,  descending,  a  buzzing  swarm  of  young  ladies  hastily 
coiffees,  wrapped  up  in  green  shawls,  woollen  scarves — any- 
thing that  first  came  to  hand  when  they  got  out  of  bed. 

Tartarin,  with  a  view  to  fortifying  his  own  courage,  and 
to  reassure  the  young  ladies  as  he  rushed  about  and  ran 
against  everybody,  cried  out,  "  Keep  cool !  keep  cool ! " 
with  the  voice  of  a  sea-gull — a  thin,  faint  voice — one  of 
those  which  one  hears  in  dreams,  which  give  the  "  creeps  " 
to  the  bravest  of  us.  Can  you  imagine  how  the  young  ladies 
almost  shouted  with  laughter  as  they  looked  at  him?  only 
thinking  him  very  funny  indeed.  They  had  no  idea  of  the 
danger — at  their  age! 

Fortunately  the  old  diplomatist  came  after  them,  rapidly 
arrayed  in  a  dressing-gown  over  white  calefons,  and  silken 
slippers. 

At  last  there  was  a  man ! 

Tartarin  ran  up  to  him  gesticulating:  "Ah,  Monsieur  le 
Baron,  what  a  terrible  mishap!  Do  you  know  anything 
about  it?     Where  is  it?     How  did  it  break  out?  " 

"Who?  what?"  bleated  the  bewildered  Baron,  who 
understood  nothing  of  all  this. 

"  Why,  the  fire !  " 


The  Lost  Slipper  117 

"What  fire?" 

The  unfortunate  man  was  evidently  so  vacant  and  stupid 
that  Tartarin  left  him  to  himself,  and  dashed  out  of  doors 
to  organise  assistance. 

"  Assistance!  Help!  "  repeated  the  Baron;  and  after  him 
five  or  six  waiters,  who  slept  standing  in  the  antechamber, 
stared  at  each  other  and  repeated  in  a  bewildered  fashion, 
"Help!" 

At  the  first  step  he  took  outside  the  building  Tartarin 
perceived  his  mistake.  There  was  not  the  least  sign  of  a 
fire.  A  nipping  cold,  a  dark  night  illuminated  by  pine- 
torches  which  threw  a  lurid  glare  upon  the  snow. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  steps,  a  man  with  an  Alpine  horn 
emitted  his  modulated  lowings,  a  monotonous  ranz  des 
vaches  of  three  notes,  with  which  it  is  the  fashion  on  the 
Rigi-Kulm  to  awake  the  sun-worshippers,  and  to  announce 
to  them  the  approaching  appearance  of  the  luminary. 

It  is  stated  that  he  shows  himself  sometimes,  at  his  first 
rising,  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  mountain  behind  the  hotel. 
To  find  his  bearings  Tartarin  had  only  to  follow  the  continual 
tittering  of  the  girls,  who  were  walking  close  to  him.  But 
he  proceeded  more  slowly,  still  feeling  very  sleepy,  and  stiff 
in  his  limbs  after  his  six  hours'  climb. 

"Is  that  you  Manilofi.?  "  asked  a  clear -toned  voice 
suddenly  out  of  the  darkness — a  lady's  voice:  "  come  and 
help  me;   I  have  lost  my  shoe." 

Tartarin  recognised  the  bird-like  notes  of  his  little  neigh- 
bour at  the  table  dlwte,  whose  graceful  profile  he  caught  in 
the  pale  light  reflected  from  the  snowy  ground. 

"  It  is  not  Maniloff,  mademoiselle;  but  if  I  can  be  of  any 
assistance " 

She  uttered  a  little  cry  of  surprise  and  fear,  and  made  a 
gesture  of  repulsion  which  Tartarin  did  not  see,  for  he  was 
already  stooping  down  and  tapping  the  short  grass,  which 
crackled  with  frost  beneath  his  fingers. 

"  r^,  pardi !  here  it  is!"  he  exclaimed  joyfully.  He 
shook  the  slender  shoe,  which  was  powdered  with  rime, 
knelt  down  on  one  knee  on  the  cold  damp  ground,  in  the 
most  gallant  fashion,  and  asked  that  he  might  be  rewarded 
by  having  the  honour  to  put  on  Cinderella's  slipper! 

The  lady,  more  unamiable  than  in  the  story,  replied  with 


I  I  8  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

a  "  No  "  very  sharply  uttered,  and  hopping  on  one  foot 
endeavoured  to  insert  her  silk  stocking  into  the  reddish- 
brown  shoe;  but  she  would  never  have  succeeded  without 
the  aid  of  our  hero,  who  was  very  much  pleased  to  feel  a 
little  hand  resting  for  a  minute  on  his  shoulder. 

"  You  have  very  good  eyes,"  she  said  by  way  of  acknow- 
ledgment, while  they  proceeded  groping  their  way  in  the 
dark  side  by  side. 

"  The  result  of  sporting  habits,  mademoiselle." 

"  Ah,  then  you  are  a  sportsman!  " 

She  said  this  with  some  raillery  and  a  little  incredulity  in 
her  voice.  Tartarin  had  only  to  mention  his  name  to  con- 
vince her  of  the  fact,  but,  like  all  illustrious  people,  he  was 
discreet,  and,  with  a  kind  of  coquetry,  wished  to  surprise 
her  by  degrees  as  it  were, — 

"  I  am  a  hunter,  as  a  matter  of  fact !  " 

She  continued  in  her  ironical  tone, — 

"  And  what  game  do  you  hunt  for  choice,  now?  " 

"  The  large  carnivora  and  the  great  deer,"  replied  Tartarin, 
believing  he  would  overwhelm  her. 

"  Do  you  find  many  of  them  on  the  Rigi?  "  she  asked. 

Always  polite  in  his  repartee,  Tartarin  was  going  to  reply 
that  on  the  Rigi  he  had  met  none  but  gazelles,  when  his 
remark  was  cut  short  by  the  approach  of  two  shadows  who 
called  out, — 

"  Sonia!  Sonia!  " 

"  I  am  coming,"  she  said,  and  then  turning  towards 
Tartarin,  whose  eyes,  now  accustomed  to  the  obscurity,  were 
able  to  distinguish  her  pretty  pale  face  under  a  mantilla  en 
manola,  she  added,  this  time  seriously, — 

"  You  are  engaged  in  a  dangerous  pursuit,  my  good  man. 
Take  care  you  do  not  lose  your  life " 

And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  disappeared  in  the  darkness 
with  her  friends. 

Later  on  the  menacing  import  of  these  words  occurred  to 
the  imaginative  mind  of  the  Southerner:  but  at  the  time  he 
was  only  vexed  at  the  use  of  the  term  "  good  man,"  flung 
at  his  stoutness  and  grey  hair,  and  at  the  careless  disappear- 
ance of  the  young  lady  just  as  he  was  going  to  tell  her  who 
he  was,  and  to  gloat  over  her  stupefaction. 

He  advanced  a  few  paces  in  the  direction  of  the  group 


A  Rigi  Sunrise  i  19 

who  were  preceding  him,  with  a  confused  murmur  in  his  ears 
— the  coughing,  the  sneezing  of  the  assembled  tourists,  who 
were  waiting  with  impatience  the  rising  of  the  sun:  some  of 
the  most  adventurous  chmbed  up  into  a  httle  stand  or 
belvedere,  the  supports  of  which,  coated  with  snow,  were 
distinguishable  in  the  dying  darkness  of  the  night. 

A  gleam  of  light  began  to  streak  the  eastern  sky,  and  was 
saluted  by  another  note  on  the  Alpine  horn,  and  with  that 
"  ah  "  which  escapes  from  the  overcharged  bosoms  of  the 
spectators  as  the  prompter's  last  bell  rings  for  the  raising  of 
the  curtain.  Thin  as  a  crack  in  a  lid,  the  light  gradually 
extended  itself,  widening  the  horizon,  but  at  the  same  time 
r.iising  from  the  valley  a  thick,  opaque,  yellow  fog,  which 
became  thicker  and  more  extended  as  day  broke.  It  was 
like  a  veil  between  the  stage  and  the  audience. 

They  were  obliged  to  give  up  all  hope  of  seeing  the  beauti- 
ful effects  described  by  the  guide-books.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  heterodox  costumes  of  the  dancers  of  the  night  before, 
hurriedly  aroused  from  sleep,  were  displayed  as  in  a  magic 
lantern,  ludicrous  and  eccentric;  for  shawls,  counterpanes, 
even  the  curtains  of  the  beds  which  they  had  occupied  were 
worn.  Beneath  the  varied  head-dresses — silk  or  cotton  caps, 
hoods,  toques,  night-caps  —  were  scared,  puflfed  faces,  the 
heads  of  shipwrecked  people  on  an  island  in  the  open  sea, 
on  the  watch  for  a  sail  in  the  ofhng  with  all  the  intentness 
of  gaze  of  which  their  widely  open  eyes  were  capable. 

And  nothing — all  the  time  nothing! 

Nevertheless,  some  of  them  in  an  access  of  good  will  made 
believe  to  distinguish  the  peaks  from  the  belvedere;  and 
the  "  clucking  "  of  the  Peruvian  girls  were  heard  as  they 
surrounded  a  big  fellow  in  a  check  ulster  who  was  enumerating 
in  the  calmest  way  the  invisible  panoramic  objects  of  the 
Bernese  Alps,  naming  and  designating,  in  a  loud  voice,  the 
peaks  which  were  enveloped  in  the  fog, — 

"  On  the  left  you  see  the  Finsteraarhorn,  12,825  feet  high; 
the  Schreckhorn,  the  Wetterhorn,  the  Monch,  the  Jungfrau, 
to  the  elegant  proportions  of  which  I  would  call  the  attention 
of  the  young  ladies." 

"  Be  !  true,  that  fellow  does  not  want  for  impudence," 
said  Tartarin  to  himself.  Then  as  an  after-thought  he 
muttered — "  But  I  know  that  voice — pas  mouain." 


120  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

He  recognised  the  accent  —  that  assent  of  the  South  of 
France  which  is  as  distinguishable  at  a  distance  as  the  garhc 
is;  but  so  pre-occupied  was  he  in  following  up  the  fair 
unknown  that  he  did  not  stop,  continuing  to  inspect  the 
groups  he  passed.  She  had,  no  doubt,  returned  to  the  hotel, 
as  every  one  else  was  now  doing,  tired  of  remaining  shivering 
in  the  cold  and  stamping  their  feet. 

Some  bent  backs,  some  tartan-plaids,  the  ends  of  which 
swept  the  snow,  disappeared  into  the  ever- thickening  fog! 
Very  soon  nothing  remained  on  the  plateau,  cold  and  desolate 
in  the  grey  dawn,  but  Tartarin,  and  the  Alpine  horn-blower 
who  continued  to  extract  melancholy  howls  from  the  instru- 
ment like  a  dog  baying  at  the  moon. 

He  was  a  little  old  man,  with  a  long  beard,  wearing  a 
Tyrolese  hat  embellished  with  green  tassels  which  fell  down 
his  back,  and  bearing,  like  those  of  all  the  retainers  of  the 
hotel,  the  Regina  Montium  in  letters  of  gold.  Tartarin 
advanced  towards  him  to  bestow  on  him  a  pour-boire,  as  he 
had  seen  the  other  tourists  do. 

"  Let  us  go  to  bed,  old  fellow,"  said  he,  tapping  the  man 
upon  the  shoulder  with  the  Tarascon  familiarity.  "  A 
regular  humbug,  que,  this  Rigi  sunrise!  " 

The  old  man  continued  to  blow  his  horn,  finishing  his 
ritornello  with  a  silent  laugh  which  wrinkled  up  the  corners 
of  his  eyes  and  shook  the  green  tassels  of  his  hat. 

Tartarin,  after  all,  did  not  regret  the  experience  of  the 
night.  The  meeting  with  the  pretty  blonde  made  amends 
to  him  for  his  interrupted  sleep,  for  although  near  his  fiftieth 
year  he  had  still  a  warm  heart,  a  romantic  imagination,  an 
ardent  soul.  When  he  again  had  reached  his  bedroom,  and 
had  shut  his  eyes  to  woo  sleep,  he  still  fancied  he  could  feel 
in  his  hand  the  tiny  shoe,  and  hear  the  jerky  appeals  of  the 
young  lady:   "  Is  that  you,  Maniloff .?  " 

Sonia!  What  a  beautiful  name.  She  was  certainly  a 
Russian;  and  these  young  men  were  travelling  with  her — 
friends  of  her  brother  no  doubt.  Then  all  became  misty; 
the  golden-curled  little  head  went  to  mingle  with  other 
floating  and  drowsy  visions — the  slopes  of  the  Rigi  and  the 
waterfalls, — and  very  soon  the  heroic  snoring  of  the  great 
man,  sonorous  and  rhythmical,  filled  the  little  room  and  a 
considerable  section  of  the  corridor  besides. 


An  Anonymous  Letter  121 

As  he  was  about  to  go  down  stairs  next  morning,  at  the 
first  sound  of  the  breakfast-bell,  Tartarin  was  reassuring 
himself  that  his  beard  had  been  properly  brushed,  and  that 
he  did  not  look  very  badly  in  his  mountaineering  costume, 
when  suddenly  he  began  to  shake  with  fear.  Before  him, 
open,  and  stuck  in  the  looking-glass,  an  anonymous  letter 
displayed  the  following  threatening  words, — 

"  Fratifats  dii  diable,  thy  disguise  but  ill  conceals  thee.  We 
have  spared  thee  this  time,  but  if  thou  crossest  our  path  again, 
beware  1 " 

Perfectly  astounded,  he  read  and  re-read  the  note  without 
comprehending  it.  Of  whom,  of  what,  was  he  to  beware? 
How  had  the  letter  got  there.-*  Evidently  while  he  slept, 
for  he  had  not  perceived  it  when  he  returned  from  his  early 
morning  promenade.  He  rang  for  the  chambermaid,  a  flat- 
faced  creature  marked  with  small-pox  like  a  Gruyere  cheese, 
from  whom  he  could  elicit  nothing  intelligible  except  that 
she  was  of  "  pon  fatnille,"  and  never  entered  the  rooms  when 
a  gentleman  was  in  possession. 

"  What  a  very  curious  thing,"  said  Tartarin,  as  he  turned 
the  note  over  and  over.  He  was  greatly  impressed.  In  a 
moment  the  name  of  Costecalde  crossed  his  mind,  Costecalde 
imbued  with  his  own  plans  of  mountaineering,  and  endeavour- 
ing to  turn  him  aside  by  menaces  and  plotting!  Then  he 
began  to  persuade  himself  that  the  letter  was  a  hoax,  for  he 
soon  abandoned  the  other  theory;  perhaps  some  of  the  girls 
who  had  laughed  at  him  so  merrily  had  perpetrated  it, — they 
were  so  independent,  these  young  English  and  American 
ladies  1 

The  second  bell  sounded.  He  put  the  anonymous  letter 
in  his  pocket.  "  After  all,  we  shall  soon  see,"  he  muttered, 
and  the  formidable  moue  which  accompanied  this  reflection 
indicated  the  heroism  of  his  soul. 

A  new  surprise  awaited  him  at  the  breakfast-table. 
Instead  of  the  pretty  little  neighbour  with  the  golden  hair  he 
perceived  the  vulture-like  neck  of  an  old  English  woman 
whose  long  "  weepers  "  swept  the  cloth. 

It  was  repeated  near  him  that  the  young  lady  and  her 
party  had  left  by  the  early  train. 

"  Cre  nom  !  je  suis  floue,"  exclaimed  the  Italian  tenor  who 
the  night  before  had  declared  so  rudely  to  Tartarin  that  he 


122  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

did  not  understand  French.     He  had  evidently  learnt  it  in 
the  night! 

The  tenor  rose  from  his  chair^  threw  down  his  serviette  and 
rushed  out,  leaving  our  hero  completely  dumbfounded. 

A  great  many  of  the  guests  also  took  their  departure.  It 
is  always  thus  on  the  Rigi,  where  no  one  remains  more  than 
four-and-twenty  hours.  Besides,  the  arrangements  of  the 
table  are  invariably  the  same,  the  dessert  dishes  in  long  rows 
separating  the  two  factions.  But  that  morning  the  Rice 
Party  were  triumphant  in  the  large  majority — reinforced  by 
some  illustrious  personages;  and  the  Prunes,  as  was  said, 
did  not  show  to  advantage. 

Tartarin,  without  taking  either  side,  went  up  stairs 
fastened  up  his  knapsack,  and  sent  for  his  bill.  He  had  had 
quite  enough  of  Regiua  montium,  of  its  table  d'hote,  and  its 
"  dummies." 

Suddenly  reminded  of  his  Alpine  mania  by  the  touch  of 
his  ice-axe,  the  rope,  and  the  crampons  with  which  he  was 
again  accoutred,  he  began  to  burn  with  the  desire  to  attack 
some  real  mountain — a  peak  without  a  lift  and  a  photo- 
graphic studio  in  the  open.  He  hesitated  between  the  more 
elevated  Finsteraarhorn  and  the  more  celebrated  Jungfrau, 
while  the  fair  virginal  name  of  the  latter  brought  tlie  little 
Russian  once  more  to  his  memory. 

As  he  was  balancing  these  questions  in  his  mind  while  his 
bill  was  being  got  ready,  he  amused  himself  in  the  large, 
silent,  and  melancholy  hall,  by  looking  at  the  coloured  photo- 
graphs on  the  wall,  which  represent  the  glaciers,  the  snow- 
slopes,  the  celebrated  and  dangerous  passes  of  the  mountains. 
Here  is  a  party  in  single  file,  like  ants  in  search  of  food,  upon 
an  \ce-arete,  steep  and  blue ;  farther  on  an  enormous  crevasse 
with  sea-green  sides,  across  which  a  ladder  had  been  flung, 
and  was  being  crossed  by  a  lady  on  her  knees,  then  by  an 
abbe  holding  up  his  gown. 

The  mountaineer  of  Tarascon,  resting  his  hands  upon  his 
ice-axe,  had  had  no  idea  of  such  difficulties  as  those;  but  he 
must  encounter  them  somehow! 

Suddenly  his  face  paled  in  fear. 

In  a  black  frame  was  an  engraving  after  the  famous  picture 
of  Gustave  Dore,  representing  the  accident  on  the  Matter- 
horn.     Four  human  bodies,  on  their  backs  or  on  their  faces, 


A  Guide  by  Telephone  123 

were  sliding  down  the  snow-slope,  their  arms  extended,  their 
hands  beating  the  snow,  seeking  the  broken  rope  on  which 
their  lives  depended,  and  which  had  only  served  to  drag  them 
more  easily  to  death  over  the  precipice  when  they  fell  pell- 
mell  with  ropes,  axes,  green  veils,  and  all  the  pleasant  ap- 
paratus of  the  ascent  which  had  become  so  terribly  tragic. 

"  Matin  !  "  said  Tartarin,  speaking  aloud  in  dismay. 

One  of  the  polite  managers  heard  his  exclamation,  and 
thought  it  his  duty  to  reassure  the  guest.  Accidents  of  that 
kind  were  becoming  more  and  more  rare:  prudence  was  one 
essential  qualification,  and,  particularly,  a  good  guide. 

Tartarin  inquired  whether  the  manager  could  tell  him  of 
one  in  confidence.  Not  that  he  had  any  fear;  but  it  was 
always  best  to  be  on  the  safe  side. 

The  man  considered  the  point  with  a  very  important  air, 
caressing  his  whiskers  the  while.  "  In  confidence?  Ah!  if 
monsieur  had  only  mentioned  it  sooner  we  had  here  this 
morning  the  very  man.     The  courier  of  a  Peruvian  family." 

"  He  is  acquainted  with  the  mountain?  "  asked  Tartarin 
with  a  knowing  air. 

"  Oh,  monsieur,  with  every  mountain — in  Switzerland, 
Savoy,  the  Tyrol,  and  India,  in  the  whole  world — he  has  done 
them  all;  he  knows  them  by  heart,  and  will  tell  you  about 
them.  He  is  something  like !  I  believe  they  would  relinquish 
him  without  making  any  difficulty.  With  such  a  man  as  he 
a  child  could  go  anywhere  without  danger!  " 

"  Where  is  he?     Where  can  he  be  found?  " 

"  At  the  Kaltbad,  monsieur,  where  he  is  arranging  the 
rooms  for  his  party.     We  can  telephone." 

A  telephone,  on  the  Rigi ! 

That  was  the  crowning  of  the  edifice.  Tartarin  was  never 
astonished  at  anything  after  that ! 

In  five  minutes  the  gar(on  returned  with  the  reply. 

The  Peruvians'  courier  was  leaving  for  Tellsplatte,  where 
he  would  certainly  stay  the  night. 

This  Tellsplatte  is  a  memorial  chapel,  one  of  the  shrines 
established  in  honour  of  William  Tell,  many  of  which  are 
found  in  Switzerland.  People  go  there  to  see  the  frescoes 
which  a  celebrated  painter  of  Bale  has  executed  on  the  walls 
of  the  chapel. 

It  was  scarcely  an  hour  by  steamboat — or  an  hour  and  a 


I  24  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

half  perhaps.  Tartarin  did  not  hesitate.  He  might  thus 
lose  a  day^  but  he  must  pay  his  respects  to  William  Tell,  for 
whom  he  had  a  strong  predilection;  and  then  there  was  the 
chance  to  secure  this  wonderful  guide  and  arrange  to  do  the 
Jungfrau  with  him. 

En  route,  zon  ! 

He  immediately  paid  his  bill,  in  which  the  sunrise  and 
sunset  were  included  as  well  as  the  lights  and  attendance, 
and  then,  preceded  by  the  terrible  clanking  of  iron  which 
disseminated  fear  and  surprise  wherever  he  went,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  railway — for  to  descend  the  Rigi  on  foot  when 
he  had  already  walked  up  it  seemed  to  him  waste  of  time, 
and  would,  besides,  be  doing  too  much  honour  to  that 
artificial  mountain. 


IV 


on  board  the  steamer — rain — ^the  hero  of  tarascon 
salutes  the  shades — the  truth  about  william  tell 
— disillusion — tartarin  of  tarascon  never  existed  ! 
— "  te!  bompard!  " 

He  had  left  snow  on  the  Rigi-Kulm — below  on  the  lake  he 
found  rain,  a  fine  close  rain,  a  kind  of  mist  in  which  the 
mountains  appeared  like  clouds. 

The  Fohn  wind  was  blowing,  making  waves  upon  the  lake, 
where  the  gulls,  flying  low,  seemed  to  be  carried  on  by  the 
billows:  one  could  almost  fancy  one's  self  at  sea. 

Tartarin  recalled  his  departure  from  Marseilles  fifteen  years 
before,  when  he  was  setting  out  to  hunt  lions — he  thought  of 
that  sky  without  a  cloud,  bathed  in  light;  the  blue  sea,  blue 
as  indigo,  stirred  up  into  crisp  salt  waves  by  the  mistral;  the 
salutes  of  the  forts,  the  clanging  of  the  bells,  intoxication, 
joy,  sun,  all  the  fairy  impressions  of  the  first  voyage! 

What  a  contrast  was  it  with  the  black  deck  of  the  almost 
deserted  little  steamer,  on  which  he  made  out  as  in  a  mist  a 


On  Board  the  Steamer  125 

few  passengers  wrapped  in  ulsters  or  mackintoshes;  and  the 
man  at  the  wheel,  motionless  abaft,  hooded,  grave,  and 
sybilline,  above  the  legend  couched  in  three  languages: 
"  You  must  not  speak  to  the  man  at  the  wheel." 

This  prohibition  was  quite  unnecessary,  for  no  one  spoke 
on  board  the  Winkelried  at  all, — no  more  on  deck  than  in  the 
cabins,  which  were  crammed  with  passengers  of  melancholy 
mien,  sleeping,  reading,  yawning,  pell-mell,  their  light  baggage 
strewn  upon  the  benches.  They  appeared  like  a  number  of 
people  being  transported  on  the  day  after  a  coup  d'etat. 

From  time  to  time  the  hoarse  steam  whistle  announced 
the  approach  to  a  station.  A  noise  of  footsteps  and  of  the 
unloading  of  luggage  resounded  from  the  deck.  Then  the 
shore  faded  into  the  mist,  advanced  again,  displaying  the 
dark  green  slopes,  the  villas  shivering  amid  the  saturated 
trees,  the  poplars  in  rows  along  the  road,  bordered  all  its 
length  by  sumptuous  hotels  designated  in  letters  of  gold  on 
their  facades  —  the  hotels  Meyer,  Miiller,  du  Lac,  with 
numbers  of  heads  belonging  to  bored  residents  looking  out 
of  the  dripping  casements. 

The  people  crossed  the  gangway  to  the  shore;  descended, 
ascended;  equally  dirty,  soaked,  and  silent.  On  the  tiny 
pier  a  crowd  of  umbrellas  was  visible:  the  omnibus  quicklv 
disappeared.  Then  the  paddle-wheels  churned  the  water 
into  foam  and  the  shore  receded,  fading  into  the  blurred 
landscape  with  the  pensions  Meyer,  Miiller,  du  Lac, — all  the 
windows  of  which,  for  an  instant  open,  displaying  at  every 
stor>^  a  waving  of  pocket  handkerchiefs,  and  outstretched 
arms,  as  if  to  say:  "  Have  mercy! — pity  us!  take  us  away 
— if  you  only  knew — !  " 

Sometimes  the  Winkelried  would  pass  another  steamer, 
with  its  name  in  black  letters  on  the  white  ground — Germania, 
Guillaume  Tell.  There  was  the  same  lugubrious  deck,  the 
same  shiny  waterproofs,  the  same  lamentable  passage,  no 
matter  in  which  direction  the  phantom  vessel  was  proceed- 
ing, the  same  distressful  glances  were  exchanged  from  one 
to  the  other. 

And  to  think  that  all  these  people  were  travelling  for 
pleasure !  that  they  were  prisoners  for  their  own  pleasure  in 
the  pensions  of  INIeyer,  Miiller,  and  du  Lac ! 

Here,  as  at  the  Rigi-Kulm,  the  great  grievance  of  Tartarin, 


126  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

which  irritated  him  more  than  the  cold  rain  or  the  leaden 
sky,  was  the  impossibility  of  speaking! 

Below,  he  had  again  found  some  well-known  faces — the 
member  of  the  Jockey  Club,  with  his  niece !  The  Academi- 
cian, Astier-Rehu,  and  Professor  Schwanthaler,  those  two 
implacable  foes,  condemned  to  exist  side  by  side  for  a  month, 
bound  to  the  same  itinerary,  to  a  Cook's  circular  tour,  with 
others  too:  but  none  of  these  illustrious  Prunes  would 
recognise  the  Tarasconnais,  who  was  nevertheless  easily 
recognisable  by  his  comforter  and  his  equipment,  in  a  most 
indubitable  manner.  Every  one  seemed  ashamed  of  that 
dance  the  evening  before,  and  of  the  inexplicable  transports 
into  which  they  had  been  inveigled  by  that  fat  man, 

Madame  Schwanthaler  alone  came  towards  her  partner, 
with  the  bright  and  rosy  appearance  of  a  little  chubby  fairy, 
and  holding  her  skirt  between  two  fingers  as  if  she  was  about 
to  perform  a  minuet,  she  said,  "  Ballir,  —  dantsir,  —  tres 
choli !  "  Was  she  invoking  memory,  or  tempting  him  to 
tread  another  measure?  She  would  not  let  him  alone;  and 
Tartarin,  to  escape  her  importunity,  went  on  deck  again, 
preferring  to  be  wet  to  his  very  bones  rather  than  be  made 
a  laughing-stock. 

And  it  did  come  down,  and  the  sky  was  murky!  To 
heighten  the  gloom,  a  whole  detachment  of  the  Salvation 
Army  was  going  to  Beckenried — a  dozen  fat  girls  of  heavy 
mien,  with  navy-blue  dresses,  and  coal-scuttle  bonnets,  under 
enormous  red  umbrellas,  singing  hymns,  which  were  accom- 
panied on  the  accordion  by  a  man  with  wild  eyes,  lanky, 
emaciated — a  kind  of  David  Gamm.  These  shrill  voices, 
spiritless  and  discordant  as  the  cries  of  a  gull,  came  dragging 
through  the  rain,  and  the  smoke  of  the  steamer  which  the 
wind  beat  back.  Tartarin  had  never  heard  anything  so 
deplorable  in  his  life. 

At  Brunnen  the  detachment  quitted  the  boat,  leaving  the 
tourists'  pockets  full  of  pious  tracts;  and  almost  immedi- 
ately the  accordion  and  the  singing  of  these  poor  larvce  had 
ceased,  the  sky  began  to  clear^  and  bits  of  blue  became 
visible. 

Now  the  steamer  was  entering  the  Bay  of  Uri,  shaded  and 
inclosed  between  wild  and  lofty  mountain;  and  on  the  right, 
at  the  foot  of  Seelisbcrg,  the  tourists  were  shown  the  Griitli, 


Tcll's  Chapel  127 

where  Melchtal,  Fiirst,  and  Stauffacher  took  the  oath  to 
deHver  their  land  from  the  oppressor. 

Tartarin,  very  much  affected,  reverently  removed  his  cap, 
without  noticing  the  astonishment  his  action  aroused;  he 
even  waved  his  head-covering  in  the  air  three  times,  by  way 
of  doing  homage  to  the  manes  of  the  heroes.  Some  passengers 
mistook  his  enthusiasm,  and  politely  returned  his  salute. 

At  length  the  engine  uttered  a  hoarse  bellow,  which  echoed 
across  the  narrow  bay.  The  placard  which  they  display  on 
deck  at  every  landing-place — as  is  done  at  public  balls  at 
every  change  of  dance — announced  Tellsplatte.  They  had 
arrived ! 

The  chapel  is  situated  five  minutes'  walk  from  the  landing- 
place,  quite  on  the  margin  of  the  lake,  on  the  very  rock  upon 
which  William  Tell  leaped  from  Gesler's  boat  in  the  storm. 
Tartarin  experienced  a  delicious  emotion,  while  he  followed 
the  Cook's  tourists  along  the  lake,  as  he  trod  the  historic 
ground,  and  recalled,  and  lived  over  again,  the  principal 
events  of  the  great  drama,  the  details  of  which  he  knew  as 
well  as  those  in  his  own  life. 

From  his  earliest  years,  William  Tell  had  been  his  ideal ! 
When,  at  the  chemist's  (at  Bezuquet's),  they  used  to  write 
their  "  likes  and  dislikes,"  their  favourite  poet,  author,  tree, 
scent,  hero  or  heroine,  one  of  the  papers  invariably  bore  the 
following, — 

"  The  favourite  tree? — The  baobab. 

"  The  favourite  scent.? — Of  powder. 

"  The  favourite  author? — Fenimore  Cooper. 

"  Who  would  you  wish  to  have  been? — William  Tell."' 

Then  in  the  surgery  there  was  only  one  opinion — they  all 
cried  with  one  voice,  "  That  is  Tartarin!  " 

Ask  yourself,  then,  whether  he  was  not  happy,  if  his  heart 
did  not  beat  high,  when  he  reached  this  memorial  chapel 
erected  as  a  mark  of  the  gratitude  of  the  entire  nation.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  William  Tell  in  person,  still  dripping 
with  water  after  his  plunge  in  the  lake,  his  cross-bow  and 
arrows  in  his  hand,  would  open  the  door  to  him. 

"No  admission.  I  am  at  work:  this  is  not  the  day," 
shouted  a  voice  from  the  interior,  the  tone  being  much 
increased  in  volume  by  the  vaulted  roof. 

"  Monsieur  Astier-Rehu,  of  the  French  Academy." 


128  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

"  Herr  Doctor  Professor  Schwanthaler." 

"  Tartarin  de  Tarascon!  " 

In  the  ogive  window  above  the  door,  the  artist,  perched  on 
a  scaffolding,  appeared  in  his  working  blouse,  palette  in  hand. 

"  My  famulus  is  going  down  to  open  the  door  to  you, 
gentlemen/'  he  said  respectfully. 

"  I  was  sure  of  it,"  thought  Tartarin.  "  I  had  only  to 
mention  my  name !  " 

Nevertheless  he  had  the  good  taste  to  keep  back,  and 
modestly  enter  after  every  one  else. 

The  painter,  a  very  fine  young  fellow,  showing  a  golden 
head  of  an  artist  of  the  Renaissance,  received  his  visitors  on 
the  wooden  steps  which  ascended  to  the  temporary  staging 
erected  for  the  painting  of  the  chapel.  The  frescoes,  repre- 
senting the  principal  episodes  in  the  life  of  William  Tell,  had 
been  completed,  all  but  one  —  the  representation  of  the 
shooting  at  the  apple  in  the  market-place  of  Altorf.  He  was 
working  at  it  then,  and  his  young  assistant — famulus,  as  he 
called  him — his  hair  a  Varchange,  his  legs  and  feet  bare, 
beneath  a  smock  frock  of  the  middle  ages,  was  posing  as  the 
son  of  William  Tell. 

All  these  archaic  personages, — red,  green,  yellow,  blue, — 
of  more  than  human  stature,  in  narrow  streets,  and  intended 
to  be  seen  from  a  distance,  impressed  the  spectators  rather 
tamely;  but  they  were  there  to  admire,  and  they  did  so. 
Besides,  nobody  there  knew  anything  about  them ! 

"  I  call  that  most  characteristic,"  said  the  pontifical 
Astier-Rehu,  bag  in  hand. 

And  Schwanthaler,  a  camp-stool  under  his  arm,  not  to 
be  outdone,  quoted  two  verses  of  Schiller,  half  of  which 
remained  in  his  flowing  beard.  Then  the  ladies  exclaimed 
their  delight,  and  for  a  while  nothing  was  to  be  heard  but 
such  phrases  as, — 

"  Schon  !  oh,  schon  !  " 

"Yes;  lovely!" 

"  Exquis  !  delicieux  !  " 

One  could  have  fancied  one's  self  at  a  confectioner's ! 

Suddenly,  a  voice  rang  out  like  a  trumpet  blast  in  the 
silence  which  succeeded. 

"  That  shoulder  is  wrong,  I  tell  you:  that  cross-bow  is  out 
of  drawing  1  " 


The  Truth  about  William  Tell      129 

We  can  picture  the  stupor  of  the  artist,  face  to  face  with 
the  critical  mountaineer,  who,  with  his  staff  in  hand  and 
ice-axe  on  his  shoulder  threatening  to  wound  some  one  at 
every  moment,  was  demonstrating  energetically  that  the 
attitude  of  William  Tell  was  not  correctly  represented. 

"  And  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  au  mouains  !  I 
beg  you  to  believe " 

"  Who  are  you?  " 

"  Who  am  I !  "  exclaimed  Tartarin,  very  much  "  put  out." 
Was  it  not  for  him  that  admission  had  been  granted !  There- 
fore, drawing  himself  up,  he  said:  "  Go  and  ask  my  name  of 
the  panthers  of  Zaccar,  from  the  lions  of  the  Atlas.  They 
will  perhaps  inform  you !  " 

There  was  a  simultaneous  recoil,  a  general  alarm,  at  these 
words. 

"  But,"  asked  the  artist,  at  length,  "  in  what  way  is  my 
position  not  correct?  " 

"  Look  at  me — you !  " 

Falling  into  position  with  a  stamping  which  drove  the  dust 
from  the  staging  in  clouds,  Tartarin  shouldered  his  alpen- 
stock after  the  manner  of  a  cross-bow,  and  stood  in 
position. 

"Splendid!    He  is  right.     Don't  stir." 

Then  the  artist,  addressing  his  famulus,  cried,  "  Quick — a 
sheet  of  paper — a  charcoal-pencil." 

Tartarin  was  going  to  be  painted  as  he  stood,  a  dumpy, 
round-backed  man,  wrapped  in  his  muffler  to  the  chin;  fixing 
the  terrified  famulus  with  his  flaming  little  eye. 

Imagination,  oh  what  magic  power  you  possess !  He 
believed  himself  standing  in  the  market-place  of  Altorf, 
facing  his  son — he  who  had  never  had  one — a  bolt  in  his 
cross-bow,  another  in  his  girdle  to  pierce  the  heart  of  the 
tyrant.  More  than  that,  he  communicated  the  conviction 
to  the  spectators! 

"  It  is  William  Tell  himself!  "  said  the  artist,  who,  seated 
on  a  stool,  was  wielding  his  pencil  in  feverish  haste.  "  Ah, 
monsieur,  I  wish  I  had  known  you  sooner!  You  would 
have  served  for  my  model." 

"Really!  You  see  some  resemblance,  then?"  asked 
Tartarin,  feeling  much  flattered,  but  without  disarranging 
his  pose. 


130  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

Yes,  it  was  quite  thus  that  the  artist  had  pictured  the  hero- 

"  His  head,  too?  "  asked  Tartarin. 

"  Oh,  the  head  does  not  matter,"  rephed  the  artist,  as  he 
stepped  back  to  criticise  his  sketch.  "  A  manly,  energetic 
face  is  all  that  is  necessary,  since  no  one  knows  what  William 
Tell  was  like — he  probably  never  lived." 

Tartarin  let  fall  his  "  stock  "  in  a  kind  of  stupefaction. 

"  Outre  !  ^     Never  lived !     What  is  that  you  tell  me?  " 

"  Ask  these  gentlemen." 

Astier-Rehu,  very  solemn,  his  three  chins  resting  upon  his 
white  neckcloth,  replied:   "  It  is  a  Danish  legend." 

"  Ice-landic,"  affirmed  Schwanthaler,  no  less  majesticallv. 

"  Saxo  Grammaticus  relates  that  a  hero  named  Tobe  or 
Paltanoke " 

"  It  is  written  in  the  Viking's  Saga " 

Then  they  proceeded,  together — 


"  fut  condamn^  par  le  roi 
de  Danemark,  Harold  aux 
dents  bleues " 


"  dass  der  Islandische  Konig 
Needing "' 


With  fixed  eyes,  extended  arms,  without  either  looking  at 
or  understanding  each  other,  they  both  spoke  at  the  same 
time,  as  if  "  in  the  chair,"  in  the  dictatorial  despotic  tones 
of  the  professor  assured  of  not  being  contradicted.  They 
became  excited,  shouting  names  and  dates:  "  Justinger  de 
Berne!  "  "  Jean  de  Winterthur!  " 

By  and  by  the  discussion  became  general,  animated, 
furious;  they  brandished  campstools,  umbrellas,  valises, 
while  the  unhappy  artist  went  from  one  to  another  en- 
deavouring to  restore  harmony,  while  trembling  for  the 
solidity  of  his  staging.  When  the  storm  had  ceased,  he  was 
desirous  to  resume  his  sketch,  and  sought  the  mysterious 
mountaineer;  he  of  whom  the  panthers  of  Zaccar,  and  the 
lions  of  the  Atlas  could  alone  pronounce  the  name !  But  the 
Alpinist  had  disappeared ! 

He  was  striding  furiously  along  through  the  birches  and 
beeches,  towards  the  hotel  of  Tellsplatte  where  the  Peruvians' 

'  Outre  and  botifre  are  Tarasconnais  oaths  of  mysterious  etymology. 
Ladies  use  them  at  times  with  a  softening  addition — as,  "  Outre  ! 
que  vous  me  feriez  dire  !  " 


Disillusion  i  3  i 

courier  was  to  pass  the  night;  and,  smarting  under  the  blow 
which  had  disillusioned  him,  he  spoke  aloud,  driving  his 
alpenstock  furiously  into  the  soaked  pathway. 

"Never  lived!  William  Tell!  William  Tell  a  myth,  a 
legend !  And  it  is  the  painter  intrusted  with  the  decoration 
of  Tellsplatte  who  calmly  says  that !  "  He  inveighed  against 
it  as  a  sacrilege;  he  was  angry  with  the  savants,  with  this 
sceptical  century,  the  impious  upsetter,  which  respects 
nothing — neither  glory  nor  beauty:   "  coquin  de  sort  !  " 

Thus  two  hundred  or  three  hundred  years  hence,  when 
people  speak  of  Tartarin,  they  will  find  Astier-Rehus  and 
Schwanthalers  to  support  the  argument  that  no  such  person 
as  Tartarin  ever  lived !  that  he  was  a  Provengal  or  Barbary 
myth!  He  stopped,  suffocated  by  his  indignation — and  the 
steep  ascent;   and  seated  himself  upon  a  rustic  bench. 

From  that  place  one  can  see,  between  the  branches  of  the 
trees,  the  lake,  and  the  white  walls  of  the  chapel  like  a  new 
mausoleum.  A  blowing-ofE  of  steam  and  a  rattling  of  a 
gangway  indicated  a  new  access  of  visitors.  They  were 
grouped  on  the  shore  of  the  lake,  guide-book  in  hand,  ad- 
vancing and  gesticulating  as  they  read  the  legend.  And 
suddenly,  by  a  quick  revulsion  of  thought,  the  comic  side  of 
the  question  came  into  Tartarin's  head. 

He  thought  of  all  historic  Switzerland  living  upon  this 
imaginary  hero;  raising  statues  and  building  chapels  in  his 
honour  in  the  market-places  of  little  towns  and  in  the 
museums  of  great  ones;  organising  patriotic  fetes  at  which 
people  from  all  the  cantons  appear  with  banners  carried 
before  them;  the  banquets,  the  toasts,  the  speeches,  the 
cheering,  the  singing,  the  tears  which  swell  the  manly  bosoms 
— all  this  for  a  great  patriot  who,  everybody  knows,  never 
had  any  existence ! 

Talk  of  Tarascon !  Here  was  a  V  arasconnade  which  never 
had  its  equal  there ! 

Restored  to  good  humour,  Tartarin  in  a  few  good  jumps 
regained  the  high  road  to  Fluelen,  on  which  stands  the 
Tellsplatte  hotel  with  its  long  green-shuttered  fa(ade.  While 
waiting  the  announcement  of  dinner,  the  boarders  were 
walking  up  and  down  before  a  rock-work  cascade  upon  the 
ravined  road,  along  which  a  number  of  unhorsed  carriages 
were  placed  amid  the  copper-coloured  pools  of  water. 

K423 


132  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

Tartarin  ascertained  that  the  man  he  sought  was  there. 
He  learnt  that  he  was  at  dinner.  "  Lead  me  to  him,  zom," 
and  he  said  it  with  such  an  authoritative  air,  that,  notwith- 
standing the  respectful  repugnance  to  disturb  so  important 
a  personage  which  was  displayed,  a  female  servant  led  the 
Alpinist  through  the  hotel,  where  his  appearance  created 
some  sensation,  towards  the  precious  courier  who  was  eating 
by  himself  in  a  small  room  opening  from  the  courtyard. 

"  Monsieur,"  began  Tartarin,  as  he  came  in,  ice-axe  on 
shoulder.     "  Excuse  me  if " 

He  stopped  in  surprise;  while  the  courier,  the  lanky 
courier,  his  serviette  tucked  under  his  chin  amid  the  savoury 
steam  of  a  plateful  of  soup,  let  his  spoon  fall. 

"  Ve  !  Monsieur  Tartarin." 

"  Te  I  Bompard." 

It  was  Bompard,  the  former  manager  of  the  club :  a  good 
fellow  enough,  but  afflicted  with  a  vivid  imagination  which 
prevented  him  from  uttering  a  single  word  of  truth,  an  attri- 
bute which  had  gained  for  him  in  Tarascon  the  surname  of 
the  Impostor.  Designated  at  Tarascon  as  an  impostor,  you 
may  judge  what  he  was !  And  this  man  was  the  incom- 
parable guide,  the  climber  of  the  Alps,  the  Himalayas,  the 
Mountains  of  the  Moon ! 

"  Oh,  then  I  understand!  "  exclaimed  Tartarin,  somewhat 
disappointed,  but  pleased,  nevertheless,  at  finding  a  country- 
man, and  hearing  the  dear  delicious  accent  du  Cours. 

"  Differemment,  Monsieur  Tartarin,  you  will  dine  with  me, 
que  ?  " 

Tartarin  at  once  accepted,  relishing  the  idea  of  seating 
himself  at  a  nice  little  table  laid  for  two,  without  any  partisan 
dishes,  to  be  able  to  drink  freely,  to  talk  while  he  ate,  and 
to  enjoy  many  excellent  courses;  for  MM.  les  Courtiers  are 
very  well  treated  by  inn-keepers;  they  dine  apart,  and  have 
the  best  wines  and  the  "  extra  "  dishes. 

And  there  was  plenty  of  an  moins,  pas  moins,  and  di^erem- 
ment  then ! 

"  So  it  is  you,  rnon  bon,  whom  I  heard  in  the  early  morning 
holding  forth  on  the  staging  on  the  Rigi?  " 

"  Eh,  parfaiteinain  !  I  was  pointing  out  the  beauties  to  the 
young  ladies.     Is  not  the  sunrise  on  the  Alps  magnificent?  " 

"  Superbe  1  "  assented  Tartarin,  at  first  without  conviction, 


Bompard  i  3  3 

not  wishing  to  contradict  his  friend,  but  wound  up  after  a 
minute  or  so;  and  then  it  was  perfectly  bewildering  to  listen 
to  the  two  Tarasconnais  recalling  with  enthusiasm  the 
splendours  they  had  seen  on  the  Rigi.  It  was  like  Joanne 
alternated  with  Baedeker ! 

Then,  in  proportion  as  the  meal  progressed,  the  conversa- 
tion became  of  a  more  personal  character — full  of  confidences, 
gush,  protestations,  which  brought  tears  into  the  brilliant 
Provencal  eyes,  always  retaining  in  their  facile  emotion  a 
trace  of  farce  or  raillery.  This  was  the  only  point  in  which 
the  friends  resembled  each  other:  one  so  dry,  salted, 
tanned,  seamed  with  those  peculiar  professional  wrinkles; 
the  other  short,  broad-backed,  of  a  sleek  appearance,  and 
of  fresh  complexion. 

He  had  seen  so  much  of  it,  had  this  poor  Bompard,  since 
he  had  left  the  club ;  that  insatiable  imagination,  which  pre- 
vented him  from  retaining  any  situation,  had  sent  him 
wandering  under  so  many  suns  with  varied  fortune!  And 
he  related  his  adventures,  enumerating  all  the  excellent 
opportunities  he  had  had  of  enriching  himself,  such  as  his 
latest  invention  for  reducing  the  amount  of  the  Army 
Estimates  by  economising  the  expense  of  godillots.  "  Do 
you  know  how?  Oh,  mon  Dieu,  it  is  very  simple — by  shoe- 
ing the  soldiers'  feet  with  iron." 

"  Outre  !  "  remarked  Tartarin,  astonished. 

Bompard  continued,  calm  as  ever,  with  that  cool,  innocent 
air  of  his, — 

"  A  grand  idea,  was  it  not?  Eh!  be,  to  the  War  Office — • 
but  they  never  took  any  notice  of  me.  Ah,  my  poor 
Monsieur  Tartarin,  I  have  had  my  bad  days.  I  have  eaten 
the  bread  of  affliction  before  I  entered  the  service  of  the 
Company — " 

"  The  Company?  " 

Bompard  discreetly  lowered  his  voice. 

"  Chut ! — by  and  by — not  here !  "  Then  resuming  his 
natural  tone,  he  continued:  "  And  now,  what  have  you  all 
been  about  at  Tarascon?  You  haven't  told  me  anything  of 
your  reasons  for  coming  amid  the  mountains." 

This  was  the  opportunity  for  Tartarin  to  unbosom  himself. 
Without  anger,  but  with  that  melancholy  cadence,  that 
ennui,  which  all  great  artists,  beautiful  women,  and  great 


134  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

conquerors  of  people  and  hearts,  attain  when  they  grow  old, 
he  related  the  defection  of  his  compatriots,  the  plot  that  was 
being  concocted  to  deprive  him  of  the  presidency  of  the  club, 
and  the  decision  he  had  come  to  to  do  something  heroic; 
to  make  a  grand  ascent,  to  plant  the  banner  of  Tarascon 
higher  than  it  had  ever  yet  been  fixed — in  fine,  to  prove 
to  the  Alpinists  of  Tarascon  that  he  was  ever  worthy,  always 

worthy Emotion  made  him  pause;    he  was  obliged  to 

cease  speaking;   then,— 

"  You  know  me,  Gonzague!  "  he  cried.  No  one  could  do 
justice  to  the  effusiveness,  the  tenderness,  which  he  threw 
into  this  troubadour-like  name  of  Bompard.  It  was  a  kind 
of  hand-pressing — of  clasping  him  to  his  heart.  "  You 
know  me,  que  1  You  know  whether  I  have  ever  quailed  when 
in  quest  of  the  lion ;  and  during  the  war,  when  we  organised 
the  defence  of  the  club — " 

Bompard  nodded  his  head  with  dreadful  mimicry;  he 
could  fancy  himself  there  still. 

"  Well,  mon  bon,  what  the  lions,  what  the  Krupp  guns, 
could  not  do,  the  Alps  have  done — !     1  am  afraid !  " 

"  Don't  say  that,  Tartarin!  " 

"  Why  not?  "  said  the  hero,  with  touching  simplicity.  "  I 
say  I  am  afraid,  because  I  am  !  " 

Then  quietly,  without  any  attitudinising,  he  avowed  the 
impression  which  the  engraving  from  Dore's  picture  had 
made  upon  him, — the  catastrophe  upon  the  Matterhom  still 
haunted  him.  He  was  afraid  of  encountering  like  perils, 
and  so,  hearing  of  a  most  extraordinary  guide,  capable  of 
avoiding  such  dangers,  he  had  come  to  confide  in  him. 

Then  in  the  most  matter-of-course  tone  he  added, — 

"  You  never  have  been  a  guide,  have  you,  Gonzague.''  " 

''He!  yes;"  replied  Bompard,  smiling.  "Only  I  have 
not  done  all  I  said  I  had." 

"  Of  course,"  assented  Tartarin. 

Then  his  companion  said  between  his  teeth, — 

"  Let  us  go  out  into  the  road,  we  shall  be  able  to  converse 
more  freely  there." 

Night  was  coming  on:  a  cool  humid  breeze  was  driving 
the  black  clouds  across  the  sky  wherein  the  setting  sun  had 
left  a  gleam  of  dusky  grey.  They  went  side  by  side  in  the 
direction   of  Fluelen,   passing   mute   shadows   of  famished 


Confidences  in  a  Tunnel  135 

tourists  who  were  returning  to  the  hotel,  shades  themselves, 
not  uttering  a  word,  until  they  reached  the  long  tunnel 
through  which  the  road  is  carried,  and  which  opens  here  and 
there  in  "  bays,"  terrace-fashion,  over  the  lake. 

"  Let  us  halt  here,"  said  Bompard,  whose  loud  voice 
echoed  in  the  archway  like  a  cannon.  Then,  seated  on  the 
parapet,  they  contemplated  the  beautiful  view  of  the  lake, 
the  slopes  of  firs,  beeches,  black  and  thick,  in  the  foreground; 
the  indistinct  summits  of  the  higher  mountains,  then  others 
higher  still  in  a  confused  bluish  mass,  like  clouds;  in  the 
middle  a  white  line,  scarcely  visible,  of  some  glacier  frozen 
into  the  crevices,  which  was  suddenly  illuminated  with  party- 
coloured  fires,  yellow,  red,  and  green.  The  mountain  was 
being  illuminated  with  Bengal  lights. 

From  Fluelen  rockets  were  sent  up,  breaking  into  multi- 
coloured stars,  while  Venetian  lanterns  shone  and  passed  to 
and  fro  upon  the  lake  in  the  invisible  boats,  carrying  musi- 
cians and  those  assisting  in  the  jete. 

A  truly  fairy  scene  it  was,  framed  in  the  cold,  smooth 
granite  of  the  tunnel  walls. 

"  What  a  queer  country  this  Switzerland  is!  "  exclaimed 
Tartarin. 

Bompard  began  to  laugh. 

'*  Ah,  vdi  I  Switzerland !  In  the  first  place  there  is 
nothing  Swiss  in  it!  " 


CONFIDENCES   IN   A   TUNNEL 

"  Switzerland  at  the  present  time,  ve  !  Monsieur  Tartarin, 
is  nothing  more  than  an  immense  Kursaal,  which  is  open 
from  June  till  September  —  a  panoramic  casino,  to  which 
people  crowd  for  amusement,  from  all  parts  of  the  world ; 
and  which  a  tremendously  wealthy  company  possessed  of 
thousands  of  millions,  which  has  its  head-quarters  in  Geneva, 
has  exploited.  ]\Ioney  is  necessary,  you  may  depend,  to  farm, 
harrow,  and  top-dress  all  this  land,  its  lakes,  forests,  moun- 
tains and  waterfalls,  to  keep  up  a  staff  of  employes,  or  super- 


136  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

numeraries,  and  to  build  upon  all  high  places  monster  hotels 
with  gas,  telegraphs,  and  telephones  all  laid  on." 

"  That  is  true  enough,"  murmured  Tartarin,  who  recalled 
the  Rigi. 

"  Yes,  it  is  true;  but  you  have  seen  nothing  of  it  yet. 
When  you  penetrate  a  little  farther  into  the  country,  you  will 
not  find  a  corner  which  is  not  fixed  up  and  machined  like  the 
floor  beneath  the  stage  in  the  Opera:  waterfalls  lighted  up. 
turnstiles  at  the  entrances  of  glaciers,  and,  from  ascents  of 
mountains,  railways — either  hydraulic  or  funicular.  The 
Company,  ever  mindful  of  its  clients,  the  English  and 
American  climbers,  takes  care  that  some  famous  mountains, 
such  as  the  Jungfrau  and  the  Finsteraarhorn,  shall  always 
retain  their  diflScult  and  dangerous  aspects,  although  in 
reality  they  are  no  more  dangerous  than  any  others." 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  the  crevasses!  Those  horrible 
crevasses !     If  you  tumble  into  one  of  them?  " 

"  You  tumble  on  snow,  Monsieur  Tartarin,  and  you  will 
come  to  no  harm :  there  is  always  at  the  bottom  a  porter — a 
chasseur — somebody  who  is  able  to  assist  you  up  again,  who 
will  brush  your  clothes,  shake  off  the  snow,  and  respectfully 
inquire  whether  '  Monsieur  has  any  luggage?  '  " 

"  Whatever  is  all  this  you  are  saying,  Gonzague?  " 

Bompard  became  twice  as  serious  as  before, — 

"  The  keeping  up  of  the  crevasses  is  one  of  the  greatest 
sources  of  the  Company's  expenditure,"  he  replied. 

There  was  a  momentary  silence  in  the  tunnel:  the  sur- 
roundings were  calm  and  peaceful.  No  more  coloured 
fires,  rockets,  or  boats  on  the  water;  but  the  moon  had 
risen,  and  displayed  another  conventional  scene,  blue,  and 
liquid,  with  edges  of  impenetrable  shade. 

Tartarin  hesitated  to  believe  his  companion's  mere  state- 
ment. Nevertheless,  he  reflected  upon  all  the  curious  things 
he  had  seen  in  four  days:  the  sun  of  the  Rigi;  the  farce  of 
William  Tell :  and  the  inventions  of  Bompard  seemed  to  him 
all  the  more  credible,  inasmuch  as  in  every  Tarasconnais  the 
faculty  of  cramming  doubles  that  of  swallowing. 

"  Well,  but,  my  good  friend,  how  do  you  explain  those 
terrible  accidents — that  on  the  Matterhorn,  for  instance?  " 

"  That  was  sixteen  years  ago:  the  Company  was  not  then 
in  existence.  Monsieur  Tartarin." 


Confidences  in  a  Tunnel  137 

"  But  only  last  year  there  was  that  accident  on  the  Wetter- 
horn — two  guides  were  buried  with  the  travellers." 

"  That  must  happen  sometimes^  as  a  bait  for  Alpine 
climbers.  The  English  would  not  care  for  a  mountain  which 
did  not  give  them  the  chance  of  a  broken  head.  The  Wetter- 
horn  was  going  down  in  people's  estimation;  but  after  this 
little  accident  the  receipts  went  up  immediately." 

"  Well,  but  the  two  guides  ?  " 

"They  got  out,  as  well  as  the  tourists;  but  they  were 
obliged  to — to  disappear — to  be  maintained  abroad  for  six 
months.  This  was  a  serious  expense  to  the  Company;  but 
it  is  rich  enough  to  stand  it." 

"  Listen,  Gonzague." 

Tartarin  rose,  one  hand  laid  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
quondam  manager, — 

"  You  do  not  wish  me  to  come  to  any  harm,  que  ?  Well 
then,  tell  me  frankly ;  you  know  my  '  form  '  as  a  moun- 
taineer— it  is  but  middling." 

"  Very  middling,  certainly  !  " 

"  Nevertheless,  do  you  think  that  I  can  without  too  great 
risk  attempt  the  ascent  of  the  Jungfrau?  " 

"  I  will  answer  for  it.  Monsieur  Tartarin,  '  with  my  head  in 
the  fire.'    You  have  only  to  trust  yourself  to  your  guide." 

"  And  suppose  I  get  giddy?  " 

"  Shut  your  eves." 

"If  I  slip?"  ' 

"  Let  yourself  slip.  It  is  just  like  the  theatre.  Every- 
thing is  practicable.     You  run  no  risk." 

"  Ah,  if  I  only  had  you  there  to  tell  me  all  that — to  repeat  it 
to  me !  Allans,  my  brave  fellow — a  good  idea.  Come  with 
me!" 

Bompard  would  have  asked  for  nothing  better;  but  he  had 
his  Peruvians  in  tow  till  the  end  of  the  season;  and  how 
astonished  his  friend  was  to  see  him  performing  the  services 
of  a  courier — a  servant ! 

"  What  would  you  have,  Monsieur  Tartarin?  The  Com- 
pany has  the  right  to  employ  us  as  it  seems  good  to 
them." 

Then  he  began  to  reckon  off  on  his  fingers  the  various 
situations  he  had  filled  during  the  past  three  years:  guide  in 
the  Oberland;    horn-player  in  the  Alps;    an  old  chamois- 


138  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

hunter;  an  old  soldier  of  Charles  X.;  Protestant  pastor  on 
the  mountains 

"  Ques  aco  1 "  asked  Tartarin,  in  surprise. 

And  the  other  in  his  calm  way  replied, — 

"  5(?  /  oui.  When  you  travel  in  German  Switzerland,  you 
may  often  perceive  a  pastor  in  the  open  air  standing  on  a 
rock,  or  on  a  rustic  chair,  or  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  Some 
shepherds  and  cheese-makers,  with  their  caps  in  their  hands, 
and  women,  habited  in  the  cantonal  costume,  are  grouped 
around  in  picturesque  attitudes:  the  country  is  pretty,  the 
pastures  are  green  or  freshly  reaped;  there  are  waterfalls 
along  the  road ;  and  the  cattle,  with  their  heavy  bells  tinkling, 
are  on  all  the  mountain-slopes.  All  this,  ve  I  is  just  decora- 
tion— puppet-show!  The  employes  of  the  Company — guides, 
pastors,  couriers,  hotel-keepers — only  are  in  the  secret;  and 
it  is  their  interest  not  to  publish  it,  for  fear  of  frightening 
away  their  customers." 

The  Alpinist  remained  astounded,  silent,  the  greatest  sign 
of  stupefaction  in  him.  In  his  heart,  any  doubt  of  Bompard's 
veracity  which  he  had  was  now  removed ;  he  was  more  calm 
concerning  Alpine  ascents,  and  the  conversation  soon  made 
him  joyous.  The  friends  talked  of  Tarascon,  of  their 
pleasant  jokes  in  the  past  when  they  were  younger. 

"  Talking  of  jokes,"  said  Tartarin  suddenly,  "  they  played 
me  a  nice  trick  at  the  Rigi-Kulm.  Just  imagine,  this  morn- 
ing— "  Then  he  proceeded  to  relate  the  incident  of  the  letter 
fixed  to  his  glass,  which  began  with  the  emphatic  "  Frangais 
du  diable."     "  That  is  a  mystery,  que  ? 

"  Who  can  say?  perhaps — "  began  Bompard,  who  seemed 
to  take  the  incident  more  seriously.  He  inquired  whether 
Tartarin  during  his  stay  at  the  Kulm  had  any  conversation 
with  any  one,  and  let  fall  a  word  too  much. 

"  Ah !  vdi,  a  word  too  much !  How  could  one  even  open 
his  mouth  with  all  those  English  and  Germans  as  mute  as 
fishes  by  way  of  being  in  '  good  form  '  1  " 

On  reflection,  however,  he  remembered  having  "  given  a 
clincher  "  pretty  smartly  to  a  sort  of  Cossack,  a  certain  Mi— 
Milanoff ! 

"  Maniloff,"  said  Bompard,  correcting  him. 

"  You  know  him,  then?  Between  you  and  me,  I  believe 
that  this  Maniloff  was  annoyed  with  me  on  account  of  a  little 
Russian  girl." 


Confidences  in  a  Tunnel  139 

"  Yes,  Sonia;  "  murmured  Bompard. 

"  You  know  her  also  ?  Ah,  my  friend,  what  a  pearl  of 
price — what  a  dear  little  grey  partridge  she  is !  '' 

"Sonia  de  Wassilief!  'Twas  she  who  shot  General 
Felianine  dead  in  the  open  street.  He  was  president  of  the 
court-martial  which  had  condemned  her  brother  to  trans- 
portation for  life." 

Sonia  an  assassin!  that  child!  that  little  blonde!  Tar- 
tarin  could  not  believe  it.  But  Bompard  was  precise,  and 
gave  him  the  details  of  the  incident,  which  were  well  known. 
For  two  years,  it  appeared,  Sonia  had  lived  at  Zurich,  where 
her  brother  Boris,  who  had  escaped  from  Siberia,  had  joined 
her.  He  was  consumptive,  and  all  the  summer  she  carried 
him  about  in  the  bracing  mountain  air.  The  courier  had 
frequently  met  them  in  the  company  of  friends,  who  were  all 
exiles — conspirators.  The  Wassiliefs,  very  intelligent,  very 
energetic,  still  possessing  some  means,  were  at  the  head  of  the 
Nihilist  party,  with  Bolibine,  the  assassin  of  the  Prefect  of 
Police,  and  this  Maniloff,  who  the  year  before  had  blown  up 
the  Winter  Palace. 

"  Boufre  !  "  ejaculated  Tartarin,  "  one  has  queer  neigh- 
bours on  the  Rigi." 

But  there  was  yet  another  thing  !  Bompard  was  of  opinion 
that  the  famous  letter  had  come  from  these  young  people :  he 
recognised  in  this  the  Nihilist  mode  of  proceeding.  The 
Czar  every  morning  found  such  menaces  in  his  own  room ; 
beneath  his  serviette. 

"  But,"  said  Tartarin,  who  had  become  very  pale,  "  why  do 
they  send  them  to  me.''     What  have  /  done?  " 

Bompard  thought  they  must  have  taken  him  for  a  spv. 

"A  spy!  I.?"^ 

"  Be,  yes."  In  all  the  Nihilist  centres  —  at  Zurich, 
Lausanne,  Geneva — the  Russian  Government  maintained  at 
great  cost  a  number  of  detectives ;  some  time  back  she  had 
enlisted  the  former  chief  of  the  French  Imperial  police  with 
a  dozen  Corsicans,  who  followed  and  watched  all  exiled 
Russians,  adopting  a  thousand  disguises  to  entrap  them. 
The  costume  of  our  Alpine  climber,  his  spectacles,  his  accent, 
they  had  no  doubt  mistaken  for  the  disguise  of  one  of  these 
agents. 

"  Coquin  de  sort !     You   have  given   me   an  idea,"   said 


140  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

Tartarin.  "  They  had  all  the  time  at  their  heels  an  Italian 
tenor.  He  is  a  detective^  you  may  be  sure !  But  what  am  I 
to  do  now?  " 

"  First  of  all,  take  care  that  you  do  not  cross  the  path  of 
these  people,  who  have  warned  you  that  evil  will  befall  you." 

"Ah!  va'i,  evil!  The  first  of  them  who  approaches  me 
will  get  a  bullet  in  his  brain !  " 

And  in  the  obscurity  of  the  tunnel  the  eyes  of  the  Taras- 
connais  gleamed.  But  Bompard,  less  assured  than  he,  knew 
that  the  hatred  of  these  Nihilists  was  terrible,  and  overtakes 
one  secretly  by  underhand  plotting.  One  had  better  be  a 
rabbit  like  the  president.  You  must  be  distrustful  of  the 
bed  at  the  inn  in  which  you  sleep;  the  chair  you  sit  upon;  of 
the  rail  of  the  steamer,  which  will  suddenly  give  way, 
and  cause  a  fatal  accident.  And  the  poisoned  dishes,  and 
water ! 

"  Beware  of  the  spirits  in  your  flash;  of  the  foaming  milk 
which  is  brought  to  you  by  the  cowherd  in  sabots.  These 
people  stick  at  nothing,  I  can  tell  you !  " 

"  Then  what  is  left  ?  I  am  a  lost  man !  "  groaned  Tartarin ; 
and,  seizing  the  hand  of  his  companion,  he  said, — 

"  Advise  me,  Gonzague." 

After  a  moment's  reflection,  Bompard  traced  out  his  pro- 
gramme. Let  him  depart  early  next  morning,  cross  the  lake, 
and  the  Pass  of  the  Briinig,  and  sleep  at  Interlachen.  The 
next  day  go  up  to  Grindelwald  by  the  Little  Scheideck.  The 
day  after  that,  the  Jungfrau!  Then  away  to  Tarascon, 
without  losing  an  hour,  without  even  looking  back ! 

"  I  will  start  to-morrow,  Gonzague,"  said  our  hero,  in  a 
stout  voice,  but  with  an  uneasy  glance  around  into  the 
darkness. 


Start  for  the  Briinig  Pass  141 


VI 


THE  PASS  OF  THE  BRUNIG — TARTARIN  FALLS  INTO  THE  HANDS 
OF  THE  NIHILISTS — DISAPPEARANCE  OF  AN  ITALIAN  TENOR 
AND  AN  AVIGNON  ROPE — NEW  EXPLOITS  OF  A  "  CHASSEUR 
DE  CASQUETTES  " — PAN !     PAN  ! 

"  Now  then,  get  in !    Get  in !  " 

"But  where?  Where  the  devil  am  I  to  get  in?  all  the 
places  are  filled !    They  won't  have  me  anywhere !  " 

This  conversation  took  place  at  the  end  of  the  Lake  of  the 
Four  Cantons,  at  Alpnach — on  that  damp,  undrained  shore, 
like  a  delta,  whence  the  diligences  and  post-carriages  start 
in  line  for  the  Briinig  Pass. 

A  fine,  needle-pointed  rain  had  been  falling  since  morning, 
and  the  worthy  Tartarin,  impeded  by  his  equipment,  bustled 
about  by  the  porters  and  the  custom-house  people,  was 
running  from  carriage  to  carriage,  noisy,  and  encumbered 
like  the  one-man  orchestra  at  jetes,  who  at  every  movement 
plays  a  triangle,  a  big  drum,  a  Chinese  hat,  and  cymbals. 
At  every  door  our  hero  was  saluted  with  cries  of  alarm,  and 
the  same  "  Full  "  which  warned  him  ofif  in  all  languages,  the 
same  extension  motions  in  order  to  occupy  as  much  space  as 
possible,  and  to  prevent  the  entry  of  such  a  dangerous  and 
loud-voiced  companion. 

The  unfortunate  man  perspired  and  panted,  responded  by 
cries  of  "  Coquin  de  bon  sort,"  and  by  despairing  gestures  to 
the  impatient  clamour  of  the  convoy:  "En  route;"  "All 
right;  "  "  Andiamo  ;  "  "  Vorwdrts."  The  horses  pawed  the 
ground,  the  drivers  swore.  At  length  the  mail-guard;  an 
immense  red-faced  man  in  a  tunic  and  flat  cap,  interfered; 
and  opening  the  door  of  a  half-covered  landau  pushed  Tar- 
tarin in  like  a  parcel,  and  then  stood  upright  and  majestic 
before  the  splash-board,  his  large  hand  extended  for  a 
trtnkgeld. 

Humiliated,  furious  with  the  people  in  the  carriage,  who 
received  him  manu  militari,  Tartarin  pretended  not  to  look 
at  them,  thrust  his  purse  down  into  his  pocket,  wedging  in 
his  ice-axe  beside  him  with  evident  ill-humour. 


142  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

"  Bon  jour,  monsieur''  said  a  sweet  and  well-known 
voice. 

He  looked  up,  and  remained  transfixed  with  terror; 
opposite  to  him  was  the  pretty,  rosy,  round  face  of  Sonia, 
who  was  seated  under  the  hood  of  the  landau,  and  also  a 
great  boy  wrapped  up  in  shawls  and  rugs,  of  whom  nothing 
could  be  seen  but  a  forehead  of  livid  pallor  and  some  curly 
hair,  thin  and  golden  as  the  frames  of  his  eye-glasses.  The 
brother,  no  doubt.  A  third  person,  whom  Tartarin  knew 
too  well,  accompanied  them;  this  was  Maniloff,  the  incen- 
diary of  the  Winter  Palace. 

Sonia !  Maniloflf !  what  a  trap  he  had  fallen  into  1 

Now  they  would  carry  out  their  threat  in  the  precipitous 
Pass  of  the  Briinig,  fianked  by  deep  abysses !  And  our  hero, 
in  one  of  those  lightning-flashes  of  imagination,  saw  himself 
stretched  on  the  pebbles  in  some  ravine,  or  balanced  on  the 
high  branches  of  an  oak-tree.  Fly  ?  Whither  ?  How  ?  At 
that  moment  the  carriages  were  beginning  to  file  off  at  the 
sound  of  a  horn;  a  crowd  of  gamins  presented  bunches  of 
edelweiss  at  the  doors.  Tartarin,  in  his  infatuation,  had  a 
great  mind  to  commence  the  attack,  by  splitting,  with  a  blow 
of  his  alpenstock,  the  Cossack  who  was  seated  next  to  him: 
then,  on  reflection,  he  thought  it  more  prudent  to  refrain. 
Evidently  these  people  would  not  make  their  attack  until 
they  had  gone  some  distance,  in  the  uninhabited  districts; 
and  perhaps  he  would  have  an  opportunity  of  getting  out 
first.  Besides,  their  intentions  did  not  appear  to  him  hostile. 
Sonia  smiled  on  him  sweetly  with  her  pretty  turquoise-blue 
eyes;  the  big,  pale  young  man  looked  at  him  as  if  interested; 
and  Maniloff,  very  much  softened  in  manner,  obligingly 
moved  up  so  as  to  permit  Tartarin  to  put  his  knapsack 
between  them.  Had  they  discovered  their  mistake  after 
reading  in  the  register  of  the  Rigi-Kulm  Hotel  the  illustrious 
name  of  Tartarin  of  Tarascon .''  He  wished  to  assure  himself 
of  this,  and  in  a  familiar,  good-natured  way  he  began, — 

"  Delighted  to  meet  you  again,  young  lady;  allow  me  to 
introduce  myself:  you  are  unaware  with  whom  you  have  to 
do,  while  I  know  perfectly  well  who  you  are." 

"  Chit !  "  said  the  smiling  Sonia  from  behind  the  tip  of 
her  gant  de  Suede  ;  and  she  pointed  to  the  coach-box,  where, 
by  the  side  of  the  driver,  was  the  tenor  with  the  sleeve-links, 


The  Nihilists  143 

and  the  other  young  Russian,  sheltering  under  the  same 
umbrella,  laughing  and  talking  together  in  Italian. 

Between  the  policemen  and  the  Nihilists  Tartarin  did  not 
hesitate. 

"  Do  you  know  who  that  man  is?  "  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice,  putting  his  face  very  close  to  the  rosy  complexion  of 
Sonia,  and  seeing  himself  reflected  in  her  bright  eyes,  which 
grew  stem  and  hard  in  their  expression  as  she  answered 
"  Yes,"  with  quivering  lashes. 

The  hero  shivered,  but  as  at  a  theatre,  with  that  delicious 
sensation  in  the  epidermis  which  seizes  you  when  the  action 
is  strong,  and  you  sit  back  in  your  stall  to  see  and  hear 
better.  Personally  out  of  the  business,  delivered  from  the 
horrible  visions  which  had  haunted  him  all  night,  which  had 
prevented  his  enjoying  his  coflfee,  butter,  and  honey,  and,  on 
the  boat,  had  kept  him  far  from  the  bulwarks,  he  now 
breathed  freely,  found  life  pleasant,  and  this  little  Russian 
irresistibly  charming  in  her  travelling  toque,  her  jersey  high 
to  her  neck,  clinging  to  her  arms  and  moulding  her  still 
slim  but  elegant  figure.  And  such  a  child!  a  child  in  the 
openness  of  her  laugh,  the  softness  of  her  cheeks,  and  the 
pretty  grace  with  which  she  spread  her  shawl  over  her 
brother's  knees,  asking  him  if  he  were  well  and  not  cold. 
How  could  one  believe  that  that  little  hand,  so  slender  in 
its  chamois  glove,  had  had  the  moral  force  and  physical 
courage  to  kill  a  man ! 

Nor  did  the  others  appear  ferocious  either.  All  had  the 
same  ingenuous  laugh — a  little  sad  and  constrained  on  the 
lips  of  the  invalid,  more  noisy  in  the  case  of  Maniloff,  who, 
very  youthful  under  his  shaggy  beard,  would  explode,  like  a 
schoolboy  out  for  a  holiday,  in  roars  of  exuberant  merriment. 

The  third  companion,  he  whom  they  called  Bolibine,  and 
who  was  chatting  with  the  Italian,  was  as  much  amused, 
and  would  often  turn  round  to  translate  the  tales  which  the 
pretended  singer  related  of  his  successes  at  the  St.  Petersburg 
Opera-house;  his  bonnes  fortunes,  the  sleeve-links  which  lady 
subscribers  had  presented  to  him  on  his  departure;  the 
curious  buttons,  graven  with  the  three  notes  la,  do,  re, 
(r adore);  and  this  pun,  repeated  in  the  landau,  caused  such 
amusement  that  the  tenor  drew  himself  up  proudly,  and 

t\x.Mrlf»rl   Viic   mmicf  Qr-ViA   i»-ii-V»    cnr'K    o    *'  Irillir-tnr   ''    oi*-   n  r-   U«   ^♦-^— „J 


144  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

at  Sonia,  that  Tartarin  began  to  ask  himself  whether  he  had 
not  to  do  with  ordinary  tourists,  and  a  real  tenor! 

But  the  carriages^  driving  rapidly,  rolled  over  the  bridges, 
and  alongside  the  pretty  lakes,  the  flowery  meads,  the  lovely 
orchards,  dripping  and  deserted,  for  it  was  Sunday,  and  the 
peasants  were  dressed  in  their  holiday  garments,  the  women 
wearing  long  plaits  of  hair  and  silver  chains.  The  travellers 
were  beginning  to  ascend  the  zig-zag  road  amid  the  woods  of 
oak  and  beech ;  by  degrees  the  magnificent  horizon  unrolled 
itself  on  the  left  hand;  and  at  each  turn  of  the  carriage, 
streams,  and  valleys,  from  which  uprose  church  steeples, 
were  seen;  and  in  the  distance  the  snowy  peak  of  the 
Finsteraarhorn  sparkled  in  the  beams  of  the  invisible  sun. 

After  a  while  the  road  became  shaded,  and  of  a  wilder 
aspect.  On  one  side  was  gloomy  shadow,  a  chaos  of  trees 
planted  on  the  slope,  twisted  and  irregular,  amongst  which 
the  splashing  of  a  torrent  was  audible:  on  the  right  an 
immense  rock  overhung  the  path,  bristling  with  branches 
which  sprung  from  the  crevices  in  its  sides. 

They  were  not  laughing  in  the  landau  now:  all  were 
admiring  the  scenery,  and  with  uplifted  faces  endeavouring 
to  catch  sight  of  the  top  of  the  granite  tunnel. 

"  One  would  almost  imagine  we  were  in  the  forests  of  the 
Atlas,"  remarked  Tartarin  gravely,  and  his  speech  passing 
unnoticed  he  added — "  Without  the  roaring  of  the  lions,  of 
course." 

"  You  have  heard  them  then,  monsieur?  "  inquired  Sonia. 

Heard  lions!  He!  Then,  with  an  indulgent  smile,  he 
replied:   "  I  am  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  mademoiselle." 

Now  see  what  barbarians  they  were!  If  he  had  said  "  I 
am  called  Dupont,"  it  would  have  been  just  the  same.  They 
were  unacquainted  with  the  name  of  Tartarin ! 

However,  he  did  not  feel  vexed,  and  replied  to  the  question 
of  the  young  lady  as  to  whether  the  roar  of  the  lion  frightened 
him:  "  No,  mademoiselle;  my  camel  trembled  greatly  as  I 
rode  him,  but  I  visited  my  bait  as  quietly  as  if  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  a  herd  of  cows.  At  a  distance,  the  roar  is 
something  like  this " 

With  a  view  to  giving  Sonia  an  exact  idea  of  the  thing,  he 
forced  from  his  chest  in  his  most  sonorous  tones  a  most 
formidable  "  Moo,"  which  rose  extending  in  volume,  and 


The  Nihilists  145 

was  reflected  back  by  the  echo  of  the  rock.  The  horses 
pranced,  the  travellers  in  all  the  carriages  stood  up,  greatly 
alarmed,  wanting  to  know  what  had  happened,  and  the 
cause  of  such  an  awful  noise ;  then  recognising  the  Alpinist, 
whose  capped  head  and  voluminous  equipment  were  visible 
over  the  hood  of  the  landau,  they  asked  themselves  once 
more:   "  What  can  that  creature  be?  " 

He  himself,  perfectly  calm,  continued  to  illustrate  the 
details,  the  manner  of  attacking  the  beast,  the  conquest, 
and  the  despatching  of  it,  the  diamond  sights  with  which 
his  gun  was  supplied  so  as  to  enable  him  to  shoot  straight  at 
night.  The  young  girl  listened,  bending  towards  him,  with 
the  greatest  attention,  as  evidenced  by  the  slight  palpitation 
of  her  nostrils. 

"  They  say  that  Bombonnel  still  hunts,"  said  her  brother. 
■'  Did  you  know  him?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Tartarin,  without  enthusiasm.  "  He  is  by 
no  means  unskilful.     But  we  have  better  than  he." 

A  word  to  the  wise !  Then  in  a  melancholy  tone  he  con- 
tinued: "After  all,  one's  greatest  pleasures  are  in  hunting 
noble  game.  When  one  cannot  get  that  life  seems  void,  and 
one  does  not  know  how  to  fill  up  existence." 

At  this  juncture,  Maniloff,  who  understood  French  although 
he  did  not  speak  it,  seemed  to  listen  intently  to  Tartarin, 
and  said  some  few  words  laughingly  to  his  friends. 

"  Maniloff  pretends  that  we  are  in  the  same  category  with 
you,"  explained  Sonia  to  Tartarin.  "  We  also  hunt  big 
game!  " 

"Tel    Yes,  par  dt  ;  wolves,  white  bears." 

"  Yes,  wolves ;  white  bears,  and  other  beasts  still  more 
detestable!" 

The  laughing  began  again,  strident,  interminable,  in  fierce 
and  penetrating  tones  this  time;  laughs  which  displayed  the 
teeth,  and  recalled  to  Tartarin  the  peculiar  character  of  the 
company  in  which  he  was  travelling. 

Suddenly  the  carriages  pulled  up.  The  road  was  becoming 
stiff,  and  in  this  place  made  a  long  circuitous  bend  to  reach 
the  top  of  the  Briinig,  which  could  be  reached  in  twenty 
minutes  by  a  footpath  through  the  beech-wood.  Notwith- 
standing the  morning's  rain,  and  the  wet  and  slippery  ground, 
the  tourists,  taking  advantage  of  a  break  in  the   clouds^ 


146  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

nearly  all  got  out,  and  proceeded  in  a  long  file  in  the  narrow 
path. 

From  Tartarin 's  landau,  which  came  last,  the  men  de- 
scended; but  Sonia,  finding  the  paths  very  muddy,  settled 
herself  in  the  carriage,  and  as  the  Alpinist  was  following  the 
others,  somewhat  retarded  by  his  equipment,  she  said  to 
him  in  a  low  tone — and  in  a  very  insinuating  manner  too — 
"Remain  here,  and  keep  me  company!"  The  poor  man 
stood  still,  quite  overwhelmed,  weaving  for  himself  a  romance 
as  delicious  as  unlikely,  which  made  his  old  heart  throb 
loudly  and  fast. 

He  was  quickl}-  undeceived  when  he  perceived  the  young 
lady  bending  anxiously  to  watch  Bolibine  and  the  Italian  at 
the  entrance  of  the  path,  behind  Maniloff  and  Boris  who 
were  already  ahead.  The  pretended  tenor  hesitated.  Some 
instinct  seemed  to  warn  him  not  to  trust  himself  alone  with 
these  men.  He  made  up  his  mind  at  last,  and  Sonia  watched 
him  ascending,  caressing  her  cheek  with  a  bunch  of  violet 
cyclamen — those  mountain  violets,  the  leaf  of  which  is  toned 
with  the  fresh  colour  of  the  flowers. 

The  landau  proceeded  at  a  slow  pace ;  the  coachman  was 
walking  with  his  comrades,  and  the  train  of  fifteen  carriages 
proceeded  upwards  silent  and  empty. 

Tartarin  felt  disturbed  by  some  presentiment  of  sinister 
import,  not  daring  to  look  at  his  companion,  so  greatly  did 
he  fear  that  a  word  or  a  glance  might  make  him  an  actor  or 
an  accomplice  in  the  drama  which  he  felt  was  about  to  take 
place.  But  Sonia  paid  no  attention  to  him:  with  abstracted 
eyes  she  continued  to  caress  the  soft  down  of  her  cheek, 
mechanically,  with  the  bunch  of  flowers. 

Then  she  said  after  a  long  pause:  "  So  you  know  who  we 
are — I  and  my  friends?  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  us? 
What  do  the  French  people  think  of  us?  "' 

The  hero  grew  pale  and  then  red.  He  did  not  wish  to 
anger,  by  any  imprudent  statements,  people  so  vindictive  as 
these;  on  the  other  hand,  how  could  he  make  a  compact 
with  assassins?  He  got  out  of  the  difficulty  by  using  a 
metaphor, — 

"  Well,  mademoiselle,  you  told  me  just  now  that  we  were 
in  the  same  category,  hunters  of  hydras  and  monsters,  of 
despots  and  carnivora.     So  as  a  confrere  of  St.  Hubert  I  will 


The  Nihilists  147 

reply.  My  opinion  is  that  even  when  dealing  with  wild 
beasts  we  ought  to  meet  them  with  honest  weapons.  Our 
Jules  Gerard — the  famous  lion-hunter — used  explosive 
bullets.  I  myself  do  not  recognise  such  things,  and  I  never 
used  them.  When  I  went  in  pursuit  of  the  lion  or  the 
panther,  I  stood  up  before  the  animal  face  to  face  with  my 
double-barrelled  gun — and — bang!  bang! — went  a  bullet 
into  each  eye !  " 

"  In  each  eye !  "  said  Sonia. 

"  Never  once  did  I  miss  my  aim !  " 

He  said  so:  he  still  believed  it  himself. 

The  young  lady  regarded  him  with  naive  admiration, 
thinking  aloud, — 

"  It  is  a  good  thing  that  he  should  have  been  quite  sure 
of  it." 

A  quick  tearing  aside  of  the  branches  of  the  briars,  and 
the  thicket  opened  above  them  so  suddenly,  in  so  feline  a 
manner,  that  Tartarin,  whose  head  was  full  of  hunting 
adventures,  could  have  believed  he  was  on  the  watch  in  the 
Zaccar.  Manilofi  leaped  from  the  thicket  noiselessly,  close 
to  the  carriage.  His  little  wrinkled  eyes  burned;  his  face 
was  scratched  by  the  brambles,  his  beard  and  his  hair  were 
dripping  with  moisture.  Panting  for  breath,  his  great  hands 
resting  on  the  carriage-door,  he  said  a  few  words  in  Russian 
to  Sonia,  who,  turning  to  Tartarin,  said  sharply, — • 

"  Your  rope— Quick !  " 

"  My — my  rope?  " 

"  Quick,  quick!    You  shall  have  it  again  immediately." 

Without  deigning  any  other  explanation,  with  her  own 
little  gloved  hands  she  assisted  him  to  unfasten  the  famous 
rope,  made  at  Avignon.  Maniloff  took  the  coil  joyfully,  and 
regained  the  summit  of  the  bank  in  two  bounds,  with  the 
activity  of  a  wild  cat. 

"What  is  going  on?  What  are  they  going  to  do?  He 
looked  very  ferocious,"  muttered  Tartarin,  not  daring  to 
speak  his  thoughts  aloud. 

Fierce!  Maniloff!  Ah,  it  was  easily  to  be  seen  that  he 
did  not  know  him.  No  creature  could  be  better,  milder, 
more  compassionate;  and,  as  instancing  this  susceptible 
nature  of  his,  Sonia,  with  open  blue  eyes,  told  him  that  her 
friend,  after  executing  the  dangerous  mandate  of  the  Revolu- 

L4*3 


148  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

tionary  G^mmittee,  leaped  into  the  sleigh  which  awaited  him 
in  his  flight,  and  threatened  to  throw  the  coachman  from  his 
seat  if  he  continued  to  beat  or  over-drive  the  horses  on  whose 
speed  his  own  safety  depended ! 

Tartarin  thought  this  trait  worthy  of  the  ancients;  then, 
having  speculated  on  all  the  human  lives  sacrificed  as  indis- 
criminately as  an  earthquake,  or  as  an  active  volcano,  by 
Maniloff,  who  would  not  have  an  animal  ill-treated,  he  asked 
the  young  lady  with  an  ingenuous  air, — 

"  Did  he  kill  many  people  in  the  explosion  of  the  Winter 
Palace?  " 

"  Far  too  many,"  Sonia  replied  sadly,  "  And  the  only 
one  who  deserved  to  die  escaped." 

She  remained  silent,  as  if  displeased;  and  so  pretty — the 
head  bent  down,  and  the  long,  golden  lashes  resting  upon 
the  damask  cheek.  Tartarin  was  vexed  that  he  had  annoyed 
her,  and  captivated  by  the  charms  of  youthfulness  and 
freshness  which  seemed  to  surround  this  strange  little  being. 

"  So,  monsieur,  the  war  we  wage  appears  to  you  unjust  and 
inhuman?  "  She  asked  that  question  with  her  face  close  to 
his,  with  a  caress  in  her  voice  and  in  her  eyes :  our  hero  felt 
himself  giving  way. 

"  Do  not  you  think  that  any  means  are  good  and  legiti- 
mate to  deliver  a  people  who  are  in  the  death-throes,  who 
are  being  strangled  ?  " 

"  No  doubt — no  doubt." 

The  young  lady,  becoming  more  pressing  as  Tartarin 
became  weaker,  continued, — 

"  You  are  speaking  of  a  void  to  be  filled,  just  now;  does 
it  not  occur  to  you  that  it  would  be  more  noble,  more  in- 
teresting, to  stake  your  life  in  a  great  cause  than  to  risk  it 
in  killing  lions  or  in  climbing  glaciers?  " 

"  The  fact  is — "  said  Tartarin,  who,  quite  intoxicated,  had 
lost  his  head,  and  was  tortured  by  the  mad  impulse  to  seize 
and  kiss  that  dainty,  warm,  persuasive  hand  which  she  had 
placed  upon  his  arm,  as  she  had  that  morning  up  on  the  Rigi, 
when  he  was  putting  on  her  shoe.  At  length  he  could  control 
himself  no  longer,  and  seizing  her  little  gloved  hand  between 
his  own, — 

"  Listen,  Sonia,"  he  cried,  in  a  soft,  familiar,  and  paternal 
voice:  "  Listen,  Sonia " 


The  Summit  of  the  Briinig         149 

The  sudden  stoppage  of  the  landau  interrupted  him. 
They  had  reached  the  summit  of  the  Briinig:  tourists  and 
drivers  were  rejoining  their  respective  carriages,  to  make  up 
for  lost  time,  and  to  gain  the  next  village — where  dejeuner 
and  relays  were  to  be  had — at  a  gallop.  The  three  Russians 
resumed  their  places,  but  that  of  the  Italian  remained 
unoccupied. 

"  The  gentleman  has  got  into  one  of  the  first  carriages/' 
said  Boris  to  the  coachman,  who  made  inquiry  concerning 
him ;  and  then,  addressing  himself  to  Tartarin,  whose  anxiety 
was  plainly  visible,  he  said, — 

"  We  must  obtain  your  rope  from  him;  he  wished  to  keep 
it!" 

Upon  that,  fresh  bursts  of  laughter  rose  in  the  landau,  and 
caused  Tartarin  once  again  the  greatest  perplexity:  he  did 
not  know  what  to  think  of  this  good  humour  and  cheerful 
disposition  of  the  supposed  assassins.  While  wrapping  the 
invalid  in  plaids  and  rugs — for  the  air  at  that  elevation  was 
sharp,  and  augmented  by  the  pace  of  the  carriage — Sonia 
related  in  Russian  to  her  friends  the  conversation  she  had 
had  with  Tartarin,  throwing  upon  the  "bang!  bang!"  a 
gentle  emphasis  which  her  countrymen  repeated  after  her, 
some  admiring  the  hero,  while  Maniloff  shook  his  head 
incredulously. 

The  relays ! 

There  is,  in  the  place  of  a  large  village,  an  old  inn  with  a 
worm-eaten  wooden  balcony,  with  a  rusty  hanging  iron  sign- 
board. There  the  file  of  carriages  halted,  and  while  the 
horses  were  being  changed,  the  hungry  travellers  hurried  up 
and  crowded  into  a  first-floor  room,  painted  green,  which 
smelt  mouldy  and  damp,  where  a  table  d'hote  had  been  laid 
for  twenty  people,  more  or  less.  There  were  actually  sixty, 
and  for  five  minutes  a  regular  scramble  took  place  between 
the  Rice  and  Prune  factions  round  the  dishes,  to  the  great 
alarm  of  the  inn-keeper,  who  became  quite  confused,  as  if 
the  "  post  "  did  not  pass  his  door  every  day  at  the  same  time, 
and  he  bustled  his  servants  about,  who  were  also  seized  with  a 
chronic  aberration  of  intellect — an  excellent  excuse  for  only 
serving  half  the  dishes  enumerated  on  the  carte,  and  to  give  a 
fantastic  change  of  their  own,  in  which  the  white  sou  pieces 
of  Switzerland  count  as  half-francs! 


I  50  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

"Suppose  we  lunch  in  the  carriage?"  said  Sonia,  who 
was  tired;  and  as  nobody  had  time  to  attend  to  them  the 
young  people  undertook  to  wait.  Maniloff  returned  brandish- 
ing a  cold  leg  of  mutton,  Bolibine  with  a  long  roll  and 
sausages;  but  the  best  forager  of  all  was  Tartarin.  No 
doubt  there  was  an  excellent  opportunity  for  him  to  leave 
his  companions  in  the  hubbub,  and  to  assure  himself  con- 
cerning the  fate  of  the  Italian,  but  he  did  not  think  of  that: 
he  was  entirely  occupied  by  the  prospect  of  lunching  with 
"  la  petite,"  and  of  showing  Maniloff  and  the  others  what  a 
native  of  Tarascon  could  do  in  the  way  of  supplies. 

When  he  descended  the  steps  of  the  hotel,  with  a  grave 
and  resolute  face,  holding  a  tray  on  which  were  plates, 
serviettes,  and  different  kinds  of  food,  with  Swiss  champagne 
in  gold  foil,  Sonia  clapped  her  hands  and  complimented  him, — 

"  How  did  you  manage  to  get  all  this?  " 

"  I  don't  know — one  manages  it  somehow — we  are  all  like 
that  in  Tarascon." 

Oh!  those  happy  moments.  They  will  be  red-letter 
minutes  in  the  hero's  life.  That  delightful  lunch,  seated 
opposite  Sonia,  almost  on  her  knees,  as  in  a  scene  at  the  opera: 
the  village  market-place  with  its  green  quincunx,  beneath 
which  the  silver  ornaments  and  the  dresses  of  the  Swiss 
women  glanced  brightly  as  they  paced  about,  two  and  two 
like  dolls. 

How  good  the  bread  seemed  to  be,  and  what  savory 
sausages!  The  sky  itself  was  sympathetic, — soft,  veiled, 
but  not  inclement.  There  was  rain,  certainly,  but  such 
gentle  rain — "  lost  drops  " — just  enough  to  tone  down  the 
Swiss  champagne,  which  is  dangerous  for  Southern  heads. 

Under  the  veranda  of  the  hotel  were  four  Tyrolese,  two 
giants  and  two  dwarfs,  in  heavy  ragged  costumes  of  staring 
colours,  who,  it  was  .said,  released  by  the  bankruptcy  of  a 
show  at  a  fair,  were  now  mingling  their  "  goose-notes," — 
"  aou  aou," — with  the  clatter  of  plates  and  glasses.  They 
stood  there,  ugly,  stupid,  inert,  stretching  the  tendons  ot 
their  thin  necks!  Tartarin  thought  them  delightful,  and 
threw  them  handfuls  of  coppers,  to  the  great  astonishment  of 
the  villagers  who  had  assembled  round  the  unhorsed  landau. 

"Fife  le  Vranze  !  "  exclaimed  a  tremulous  voice  from  the 
crowd,  out  of  which  pushed  his  way  a  tall  old  man,  clothed 


A  Toast  151 

in  a  curious  blue  uniform  with  silver  buttons,  the  skirts  of  his 
coat  sweeping  the  ground  behind  him.  He  wore  an  enormous 
shako  in  the  shape  of  a  sauerkraut  barrel,  and  so  heavy 
with  its  great  plume  that  the  old  man  was  obliged  to  balance 
himself  with  his  arms  extended  as  he  walked,  like  a  tight- 
rope dancer. 

"  Fieiix  soltat — carte  royale — Charles  tix!  " 

The  Tarasconnais,  still  mindful  of  the  tales  told  him  by 
Bompard,  began  to  laugh,  and  covertly  winked. 

"  I  know  you,  my  friend  1  "  But  nevertheless  he  gave 
him  a  piece  of  silver,  and  poured  him  out  a  bumper,  which 
the  old  man  accepted  smilingly  and  with  another  wink,  with- 
out knowing  why.  Then,  taking  from  the  side  of  his  mouth 
an  enormous  porcelain  pipe,  he  raised  his  glass  and  drank 
"  to  the  company,"  a  circumstance  which  confirmed  Tartarin 
in  his  opinion  that  the  man  was  a  colleague  of  Bompard. 

Never  mind:  one  toast  was  as  good  as  another! 

Then,  standing  up  in  the  carriage,  Tartarin,  in  a  loud  voice 
and  with  uplifted  glass,  brought  tears  to  his  own  eyes,  by 
drinking,  first  to  France,  his  native  land,  and  afterwards  to 
hospitable  Switzerland,  which  he  was  happy  thus  publicly 
to  honour,  and  to  thank,  for  the  generous  reception  which  she 
bestowed  upon  all  conquered  people,  and  all  exiles.  Lastly, 
lowering  his  voice,  the  glass  inclined  towards  his  travelling 
companions,  he  wished  them  a  speedy  return  to  their  own 
land,  where  he  trusted  they  might  find  kind  relatives  and 
faithful  friends,  honourable  employment,  and  the  termina- 
tion of  all  dissensions;  for  people  cannot  spend  their  lives  in 
destroying  each  other. 

While  he  was  enunciating  this  toast,  the  brother  of  Sonia 
smiled  coldly  and  deprecatingly  behind  his  glasses ;  ManiloflF , 
with  extended  neck,  his  frowning  brows  making  a  furrow  on 
his  forehead,  asked  himself  if  that  "  barine  "  was  never  going 
to  stop  babbling;  while  Bolibine,  perched  on  the  seat,  and 
screwing  up  his  queer  face,  which  was  yellow  and  wrinkled  like 
a  Tartar's,  looked  like  a  wretched  little  monkey  perched  on 
the  shoulders  of  Tartarin. 

The  young  lady  only  listened  to  him :  she  was  very  serious, 
and  endeavouring  to  understand  this  curious  type  of  indi- 
vidual. Did  he  mean  all  he  had  said?  Had  he  done  all  he 
had  related?     Is  he  a  fool,  or  only  a  braggart,  like  the 


152  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

deceptive  Maniloff,  who,  in  his  capacity  of  a  man  of  action, 
gave  to  the  word  a  misleading  significance  ? 

The  test  was  about  to  be  appHed.  His  speech  concluded, 
Tartarin  was  about  to  resume  his  seat  when  a  sound  of  fire- 
arms was  heard — three  shots  in  succession,  which  at  once 
caused  him  to  rise  in  some  excitement,  his  ear  on  the  alert; 
he  scented  powder. 

"  Who  is  firing?  where  is  it?  what  is  happening?  " 

In  his  inventive  brain  quite  a  little  drama  was  being 
played — the  attack  on  the  convoy  by  an  armed  band;  an 
occasion  to  defend  the  life  and  honour  of  this  charming  girl. 
But  no;  the  firing  came  merely  from  the  stand  where  the 
young  men  of  the  village  practised  shooting  on  Sundays. 
Tartarin  airily  suggested  that  they  should  go  so  far.  He 
had  his  idea  in  proposing  this;  Sonia  had  hers  in  accepting. 
Guided  by  the  old  soldier  of  the  royal  guard,  still  undulating 
beneath  his  heavy  shako,  the  party  crossed  the  market-place, 
dividing  the  ranks  of  the  crowd,  who  followed  them  with 
some  curiosity. 

With  its  thatched  roof  and  newly-cut  fir  supports,  the 
stand  resembled,  in  a  very  rustic  fashion,  one  of  the  (French) 
shooting-galleries  at  fairs,  at  which  amateurs  practise  with 
old-fashioned,  muzzle-loading  weapons,  which  they  handle 
cleverly  enough.  Silent,  with  folded  arms,  Tartarin  watched 
the  shooting,  criticising  it  in  a  loud  voice,  giving  advice — 
but  he  did  not  shoot.  The  Russians  noticed  all  this,  and 
made  signs  to  each  other. 

"  Bang !  bang !  "  laughed  Bolibine,  with  a  gesture  of 
aiming  a  gun,  and  imitating  the  accent  of  Tarascon:  "  Pan! 
pan !  " 

Tartarin  turned  round,  scarlet,  and  bursting  with  rage, — 

"  Parfaitemain,  young  man.  Pan  1  pan ! — and  as  many 
times  as  you  please." 

In  the  time  necessan/  to  load  a  double-barrelled  gun, 
which  had  served  for  generations  of  chamois-hunters,  Tar- 
tarin was  ready.  Pan !  pan !  He  had  done  it !  Both  bullets 
were  in  the  mouth  of  the  figure.  A  hurrah  of  admiration 
rose  from  all  sides.  Sonia  was  triumphant.  Bolibine  did 
not  laugh. 

"  That  is  nothing  at  all,"  said  Tartarin.     "  You  shall  see." 

The  stand  did  not  suflfice;  he  sought  a  mark,  something 


A  Letter  153 

to  knock  over,  and  the  crowd  recoiled,  dismayed,  before  this 
strange  Alpinist,  with  his  gun  in  his  hand,  who  was  suggest- 
ing to  the  old  guardsman  to  permit  him  to  knock  his  pipe 
from  between  his  teeth  at  fifty  paces.  The  old  man  uttered 
a  cry  of  terror,  ran  away,  and  endeavoured  to  conceal  himself 
in  the  crowd,  over  the  heads  of  which  his  plume  nodded 
continually.  Nevertheless  Tartarin  felt  constrained  to  put 
the  bullet  into  something.  "  Te,  pardi  1  like  at  Tarascon!  " 
And  the  old  sportsman — the  chasseur  de  casquettes — threw  his 
head-piece  into  the  air  with  all  the  strength  of  his  "  double 
muscles,"  fired,  and  put  the  ball  through  it.  "Bravo!" 
said  Sonia,  placing  in  the  little  hole,  made  by  the  bullet  in 
the  cloth,  the  bouquet  with  which  she  had  lately  been 
caressing  her  cheek. 

With  this  beautiful  trophy,  Tartarin  got  into  the  carriage 
again.  The  horn  was  blown,  the  string  of  carriages  started 
at  a  rapid  pace  down  the  hill  along  that  marvellous  corniche 
road  cut  in  the  rocks,  where  only  posts  six  feet  apart  protect 
the  traveller  from  a  fall  of  more  than  a  thousand  feet.  But 
Tartarin  no  longer  thought  of  danger;  he  no  longer  gazed 
upon  the  landscape.  Softened  by  tender  reflections,  he 
admired  the  pretty  child  opposite,  thinking  that  glory  is 
only  doubtful  happiness,  that  it  is  a  sad  thing  to  grow  old 
alone  in  so  great  grandeur,  like  Moses;  and  that  this  cold 
flower  of  the  North,  transplanted  into  the  little  garden  at 
Tarascon,  would  dissipate  the  monotony  of  the  everlasting 
baobab  (Arbos  giganiea)  in  its  tiny  pot.  Sonia  gazed  at  him 
also,  and  thought — but  who  can  ever  tell  of  what  young 
ladies  think ! 


VII 

NIGHT  AT  TARASCON — WHERE  IS  HE? — ANXIETY — THE 
"  CIGALES  DU  COURS  "  DEMAND  TARTARIN — MARTYRDOM 
OF  A  TARASCON  SAINT — THE  ALPINE  CLUB — WHAT 
HAPPENED   AT   THE   CHEMIST'S — HELP  !     BEZUQUET 

"  A  LETTER,  M.  Bezuquet.  It  comes  from  Switzerland,  ve  t 
— from  Switzerland,"  exclaimed  the  postman  joyfully  across 
the  little  court,  as  he  waved  something  in  the  air,  and  hurried 
up  as  the  summer  evening  was  closing  in. 


154  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

The  chemist,  who  was  enjoying  the  fresh  air  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves at  his  door,  bounded  forward,  seized  the  letter  with 
trembling  hands,  and  carried  it  into  his  "  den,"  which  was 
redolent  of  various  elixirs  and  dried  herbs,  but  he  did  not 
open  the  missive  until  the  postman  had  gone,  refreshed  by  a 
glass  of  the  delicious  Shop  de  Cadavre  as  a  reward  for  his 
good  news. 

For  fifteen  days  had  Bezuquet  been  expecting  this  letter 
from  Switzerland — fifteen  days  of  agonising  suspense !  Now 
here  it  is !  And  while  only  looking  at  the  small  and  deter- 
mined address  on  the  envelope,  the  post-mark  of  Interlachen 
and  the  large  violet  stamp  of  the  "  Hotel  Jungfrau,  kept  by 
Meyer,"  tears  filled  his  eyes,  and  caused  those  heavy  Barbary- 
corsair  moustaches  to  tremble  with  emotion. 

"  Confidential :   destroy  when  read." 

These  words  in  large  letters  at  the  head  of  the  page,  and 
in  the  telegrammic  style  of  the  Pharmacopoeia — "  For  ex- 
ternal use  only:  to  be  well  shaken  before  being  applied," — 
troubled  the  recipient  so  greatly  that  he  read  them  aloud  as 
one  speaks  in  bad  dreams. 

"  What  has  happened  to  me  is  appalling!  " 

In  the  next  room,  Madame  Bezuquet,  his  mother,  who 
was  in  the  habit  of  taking  a  little  nap,  after  supper,  could 
hear  him  as  well  as  the  pupil  who  kept  braying  something  in 
a  great  mortar  in  the  laboratory.  Bezuquet  continued  his 
reading  in  a  low  voice — began  again  two  or  three  times,  very 
pale,  while  his  hair  literally  stood  up  on  his  head!  Then, 
with  a  rapid  glance  around  him — era  era — there  was  the 
letter  in  a  thousand  little  bits  tossed  into  the  waste-paper 
basket:  but  it  could  be  pieced  together  again,  perhaps! 
While  he  was  stooping  to  pick  them  up,  a  querulous  voice 
cried, — 

"  Ve,  Ferdinand,  are  you  there?  " 

"  Yes,  maman"  replied  the  unhappy  corsair,  congealed 
with  fear,  all  his  great  body  under  the  desk  as  he  groped 
for  the  pieces  of  the  letter. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  my  treasure?  " 

"  I  am, — he — I  am  making — the  eye-salve  for  Mademoiselle 
Tournatoire." 

The  mother  went  to  sleep  again;  the  pestle  of  the  pupil, 
suspended  for  the  moment,  again  resumed  the  monotonous 


Night  at  Tarascon  155 

movement  which  lulled  to  sleep  the  household,  already  ex- 
hausted by  the  fatigue  of  the  hot  summer  day.  Bezuquet 
now  paced  up  and  down  before  his  door,  by  turns  red  or 
green  according  as  he  passed  one  or  other  of  his  bottles.  He 
gesticulated,  jerking  out  words  at  intervals:  "  Poor  fellow! 
lost!  fatal  attachment ;  how  can  he  be  extracted  from  this?" 
— and  notwithstanding  his  anxiety  he  accompanied  with  a 
lively  whistle  the  "  retreat  "  played  by  the  dragoons  under 
the  plane-trees  of  the  Tour  de  ville. 

"  He  !  adieu,  Bezuquet,"  said  a  shadow,  hurrying  through 
the  grey  twilight. 

■'  Where  are  you  oflf  to,  Pegoulade?  " 

"  To  the  club ;  there  is  a  meeting  to-night.  We  are  to 
discuss  Tartarin  and  the  presidency.     We  must  attend." 

"  Te,  yes!  I  will  come,"  replied  the  chemist,  suddenly. 
He  had  conceived  a  providential  idea.  He  went  inside,  put 
on  his  overcoat,  and  searched  his  pockets  to  assure  himself 
that  his  latch  key  and  the  American  knuckle-duster,  without 
which  no  native  of  Tarascon  would  venture  out  after  "  re- 
treat," were  safe.  Then  he  called  for  Pascalon,  but  in 
subdued  tones,  for  fear  of  arousing  the  old  lady. 

Almost  a  youth,  and  already  bald,  as  if  he  wore  all  his 
hair  in  his  frizzly  fair  beard,  the  pupil  Pascalon  had  the 
elevated  soul  of  a  fanatic,  a  forehead  like  a  dome,  eyes  like 
an  idiotic  gnat,  and  on  his  cheeks  pimples  of  various  delicate 
tones,  crusty  and  golden,  like  a  little  loaf  of  Beaucaire.  On 
great  days  and  festivals  the  club  intrusted  its  banner  to  this 
youth  who  had  vowed  to  the  P.  C.  A.  a  fierce  admiration, 
the  silent,  but  burning,  devotion  of  the  candle  which  con- 
sumes itself  upon  the  altar  at  Easter-tide. 

"  Pascalon,"  whispered  the  chemist,  so  close  to  his  pupil's 
head  that  the  tip  of  his  moustache  entered  his  ear,  "  I  have 
had  news  of  Tartarin!     It  is  harrowing!  " 

Then,  seeing  his  assistant  grow  paler,  he  continued, — 

"  Courage,  my  lad,  all  may  yet  be  repaired.  DiJJerem- 
ment  to  you  I  confide  the  shop.  If  any  one  asks  for  arsenic, 
don't  let  him  have  it;  if  any  one  asks  for  opium,  don't  give 
it  to  him;  nor  rhubarb  either — nor  anything!  If  I  am  not 
back  at  ten  o'clock,  shut  up  and  go  to  bed.     Go !  " 

With  intrepid  steps  he  plunged  into  the  darkness  of  the 
Tour  de  ville  without  once  looking  behind  him,  a  circumstance 


156  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

which  gave  Pascalon  the  opportunity  to  rush  to  the  waste- 
paper  basket,  and  to  search  with  eager  and  trembhng  hands, 
to  turn  the  contents  out  at  last  upon  the  desk,  in  his  anxiety 
to  ascertain  whether  some  bits  of  the  mysterious  letter  did 
not  remain. 

Any  one  who  knows  the  exaltation  of  the  Tarasconnais  will 
readily  understand  the  state  of  excitement  the  little  town 
had  been  in  since  the  sudden  disappearance  of  Tartarin. 
And  besides,  pas  moins,  differemment,  they  had  all  lost  their 
heads,  all  the  more  because  they  were  now  in  the  middle  of 
August,  and  their  craniums  were  broiling  under  a  sun  hot 
enough  to  boil  their  kettles.  From  morning  tUl  night 
nothing  was  heard  in  the  town  but  the  name  of  "  Tartarin," 
whether  on  the  pinched  lips  of  the  old  women  with  hoods,  or 
in  the  cherry  mouths  of  the  grisettes  with  velvet  ribbons  in 
their  hair:  "  Tartarin,  Tartarin,"  and,  under  the  plane-trees 
of  the  Cours,  laden  with  white  dust,  the  hidden  grasshoppers 
seemed  to  give  vent  to  the  two  sounding  syllables,  "  Tar — 
tar — tar — tar — tar . ' ' 

As  no  one  knew  anything  whatever  about  him,  it  was  only 
natural  that  every  one  should  be  well-informed,  and  be  able 
to  give  an  explanation  of  the  departure  of  the  President. 
There  were  the  most  extravagant  versions.  According  to 
some,  he  had  become  a  Trappist,  he  had  carried  away  the 
Dugazon;  others  said  that  he  had  emigrated  to  found  a 
colony  which  would  be  called  Port  Tarascon,  or  even  that  he 
had  penetrated  into  Central  Africa  in  search  of  Doctor 
Livingstone ! 

"Ah!  e^ai',  Livingstone !    Why  he  died  two  years  ago !  " 

But  the  Tarascon  imagination  defies  all  considerations  of 
time  and  space.  And  the  curious  part  of  the  matter  was  that 
all  these  tales  of  La  Trappe,  colonisation,  distant  voyages, 
etc.,  were  ideas  of  Tartarin  himself;  visions  of  that  waking 
dreamer,  already  communicated  to  his  intimate  friends,  who. 
did  not  know  what  to  think ;  and  felt  very  much  annoyed  in 
their  secret  hearts  at  not  being  told;  while  affecting  with 
others  an  ostentatious  reserve,  a  knowing  and  crafty  air! 
Excourbani^s  suspected  Bravida  of  knowing  all  about  it,  and 
Bravida  on  his  part  said:  "  Bezuquet  must  be  acquainted 
with  all  this.  He  looks  askance  like  a  dog  carrying  a 
bone!" 


Where  is  Tartarin  ?  157 

It  is  a  fact  that  the  chemist  suffered  a  thousand  deaths 
with  this  secret  hke  a  hair-shirt,  smarting  and  itching; 
making  him  grow  pale  and  red  in  the  same  minute,  and  caus- 
ing him  to  squint  continually.  Just  think  that  the  poor 
wretch  was  in  Tarascon,  and  say  whether,  in  all  the  Book  of 
Martyrs,  there  is  to  be  found  a  torture  so  terrible  as  his — the 
martyrdom  of  Saint  Bezuquet^  who  knew  something  and  was 
not  permitted  to  divulge  it  1 

This  is  the  reason  why  that  evening,  notwithstanding  the 
terrible  news,  his  step  was  so  light,  so  free,  almost  running  as 
he  went  to  the  meeting.  Enfein  1  He  was  going  to  speak : 
to  unbosom  himself,  to  tell  what  had  so  long  weighed  on  his 
mind,  and  in  his  haste  to  free  himself  he  threw  out  inter- 
jectional  remarks  at  the  passers-by  in  the  Tour  de  ville.  The 
day  had  been  so  hot  that  notwithstanding  the  unwonted 
hour  and  the  terrifying  darkness — it  was  a  quarter  to  eight 
by  the  town  clock — there  was  out  of  doors  a  merry  crowd, 
tradesmen's  families  seated  on  the  benches  and  enjoying  the 
fresh  air  while  their  houses  were  cooling;  bands  of  factory- 
girls  walked  five  or  six  abreast,  holding  each  other's  arms,  in 
an  undulating,  chattering,  laughing  line.  In  all  these  groups 
they  were  speaking  of  Tartarin. 

"Well,  Monsieur  Bezuquet,  no  letter  yet?"  asked  one, 
stopping  the  chemist  in  his  walk. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  my  friend;  I  beg  your  pardon!  Read  the 
Forum  to-morrow  morning." 

He  hurried  on,  but  they  followed  him,  pressed  upon  him, 
and  there  ran  a  murmur  along  the  drive,  a  trampling  of  feet, 
that  halted  under  the  windows  of  the  club,  which  were  open, 
throwing  large  square  patches  of  light  upon  the  ground. 

The  meeting  was  being  held  in  the  old  card-room,  in  which 
the  long  table  covered  with  green  cloth  served  as  a  desk.  In 
the  centre  of  it  was  the  President's  chair  with  P.  C.  A.  em- 
broidered on  the  back;  and  the  chair  of  the  secretary  faced 
it.  Behind  was  displayed  the  banner,  above  a  long  map  in 
relievo  of  the  Alpines,  with  their  respective  names  and  alti- 
tudes. Alpenstocks  of  honour,  mounted  in  ivory  in  racks 
like  billiard-cues,  embellished  the  corners,  and  the  glass  cases 
displayed  curiosities  picked  up  on  the  mountains — crystals, 
flints,  petrifactions,  two  sea-urchins,  and  a  salamander ! 

In  the  absence  of  Tartarin,  Costecalde,  looking  radiant, 


158  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

rejuvenated,  occupied  the  chair.  The  secretary's  seat  was 
filled  by  Excourbanies;  but  this  devil  of  a  fellow,  frizzled, 
shaggy,  and  bearded,  felt  the  need  of  noise  or  of  agitation, 
which  did  not  fit  him  for  performing  secretarial  duties.  On 
the  smallest  pretext  he  would  throw  up  his  arms  and  legs, 
utter  the  most  alarming  cries,  and  shout  "  Ha!  ha!  ha!  "  in 
his  ferocious  joy,  which  generally  terminated  in  the  terrible 
war-cry  of  the  residents  of  Tarascon  in  their  idiom — "  Fen 
de  brut! — let  us  make  a  noise!"  They  called  him  "The 
Gong,"  because  his  brazen  tones  were  continually  dinning 
in  one's  ears. 

Here  and  there  about  the  room  the  other  members  of  the 
Committee  were  seated. 

In  the  first  line  was  the  former  capitaine  dliabillement, 
Bravida,  whom  every  one  in  Tarascon  called  the  Commandant 
— a  very  small  man,  as  neat  as  a  new  pin,  who  compensated 
himself  for  his  small  stature  by  cultivating  the  wild  and 
moustached  head  and  face  of  Vercingetorix. 

Then  we  perceive  the  long,  seamed,  and  sickly  face  of 
Pegoulade,  the  tax-collector,  the  sole  survivor  of  the  wreck 
of  the  Medusa.  Always,  as  far  as  the  memory  of  man 
extended,  there  had  been  in  Tarascon  a  sole  survivor  of  the 
wreck  of  the  Medusa.  At  one  time,  indeed,  there  had  been 
three,  who  mutually  looked  upon  each  other  as  impostors, 
and  would  not  associate  with  each  other.  Of  the  three,  the 
true  one  was  Pegoulade.  Shipped  on  board  the  Medusa 
with  his  parents,  he  had  experienced  the  disaster  when  he 
was  six  months  old,  but  this  circumstance  did  not  prevent 
him  from  recounting,  as  an  eye-witness ,  the  minutest  details 
of  the  famine,  the  boats,  the  raft,  and  he  told  how  he  had 
seized  by  the  neck  the  captain,  who  had  endeavoured  to  save 
himself — "the  wretch!"  At  six  months  old!  Outre! 
Always  boring  people  with  his  everlasting  story,  which 
everybody  knew  before,  filtered  through  fifty  years,  and 
which  gave  him  a  pretext  for  giving  himself  an  injured, 
desolate  air,  apart  from  life,  as  it  were.  "  After  what  I 
have  seen,"  he  would  say,  and  very  unjustly,  since  he  had 
retained  his  position  as  tax-gatherer  through  every  ad- 
ministration. 

Near  him  were  the  brothers  Rognonas,  twins  and  sexa- 
genarians, never  deserting  each  other,  but  always  quarrelling 


The  Alpine  Club  159 

and  making  rude  remarks  to  each  other.  There  was  so  great 
a  resemblance  between  their  two  old,  worn,  and  irregularl)'- 
shaped  heads,  that,  had  they  been  placed  facing  in  opposite 
directions  for  antipathy,  they  might  have  figured  in  a 
medallion  with  Ianvs  Bifrons  as  a  legend. 

In  other  chairs  were  scattered  President  Bedaride,  Barjavel 
the  advocate,  Cambalalette  the  notary,  and  the  terrible 
Doctor  Tournatoire,  who,  Bravida  said,  "  would  let  blood 
from  a  turnip!  " 

The  heat  was  increasing,  being  much  augmented  by  the 
gas,  so  these  gentlemen  sat  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  a  circum- 
stance which  rather  detracted  from  the  dignity  of  the  meet- 
ing. It  is  true  they  were  in  private,  and  the  infamous 
Costecalde  wished  to  profit  by  it  to  advance  the  date  of  the 
election,  without  waiting  for  the  return  of  Tartarin.  Assured 
of  success,  he  triumphed  in  advance,  and  when,  after  the  read- 
ing of  the  orders  of  the  day  by  Excourbani^s,  he  rose  to  work 
his  plot  out,  a  horrible  smile  curved  his  thin  lips. 

"  Beware  of  him  who  smiles  before  speaking,"  muttered 
the  Commandant. 

G^stecalde,  without  flinching,  and  with  a  wink  to  the 
faithful  Tournatoire,  began  in  a  thin  voice, — 

"  Gentlemen,  the  indefensible  conduct  of  our  President, — 
the  uncertainty  in  which  he  leaves  us " 

"  It  is  false!    The  President  has  written!  " 

Bezuquet,  trembling,  planted  himself  before  the  table; 
but  remembering  that  his  attitude  was  "  unparliamentary," 
he  changed  his  tone,  and  with  uplifted  hand,  according  to 
custom,  requested  leave  to  make  a  statement  on  a  pressing 
question. 

"Speak!  Speak!" 

Costecalde,  very  yellow,  and  with  throat  compressed,  gave 
him  permission  with  a  nod.  Then,  and  not  till  then, 
Bezuquet  began,— 

"  Tartarin  is  at  the  foot  of  the  Jungfrau.  He  is  about  to 
ascend  it.  He  requests  that  the  banner  may  be  sent  to 
him." 

A  silence,  broken  only  by  the  hard  breathing  of  the 
audience  and  the  burning  of  the  gas,  succeeded.  Then  a 
loud  hurrah,  an  uproar  of  "  bravos  "  and  stamping,  which 
overbore  the  gong  of  Excourbani^s,  who  uttered  his  war- 


i6o  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

whoop,  "  Ha !  ha !  ha !  feti  de  brut  !  "  to  which  the  anxious 
crowd  without  responded  with  cheers. 

Costecalde,  becoming  more  and  more  yellow,  rang  the 
presidential  bell  desperately.  At  length  Bezuquet  continued, 
mopping  his  forehead  and  puffing  as  if  he  was  ascending  five 
stories  high. 

Now,  about  this  banner,  which  their  President  demanded, 
with  a  view  to  planting  it  on  the  virgin  summit,  were  they 
going  to  tie  it  up,  and  send  it,  packed  like  an  ordinary  case, 
by  express? 

"Never!     Ha!  ha!  ha !"  roared  Excourbani^s, 

Would  it  not  be  better  to  appoint  a  delegation  by  lot? 

They  would  not  permit  him  to  finish.  While  you  could 
say  "  Zou  1 "  the  proposition  was  carried  by  acclamation, 
the  names  of  the  three  delegates  were  chosen  in  the  following 
order:  (i)  Bravida,  (2)  Pegoulade,  (3)  the  chemist. 

No.  2  protested.  The  lengthy  journey  alarmed  him,  so 
weak  and  ill  had  he  been  since  the  accident  to  the  Medusa. 

"  I  will  go  in  your  place,  Pegoulade,"  roared  Excourbani^s, 
making  a  semaphore  of  his  limbs.  As  for  Bezuquet,  he 
could  not  leave  his  pharmacy.  It  was  necessary  for  the 
safety  of  the  town  that  he  should  remain.  One  indiscreet  act 
on  the  part  of  the  pupil,  and  Tarascon  would  be  poisoned, 
decimated ! 

"  Outre  1 "  said  the  Committee,  rising  as  one  man. 

It  was  certain  that  the  chemist  could  not  go,  because  he 
could  not  leave  Pascalon  alone,  but  he  could  send  Pascalon, 
who  would  carry  the  banner.  That  he  would  know  how  to  do. 
On  this,  more  acclamations,  a  fresh  burst  of  clangour  from 
the  Gong,  and  outside  another  popular  demonstration,  so 
great  that  Excourbanids  felt  constrained  to  show  himself  at 
the  window,  and  his  unrivalled  voice  was  soon  heard  above 
the  tumult. 

"  My  friends,  Tartarin  is  found.  He  is  in  a  fair  way  to 
cover  himself  with  glory." 

Without  adding  more  than  "  Vive  Tartarin,''  his  war- 
whoop  was  uttered  with  all  the  force  of  his  lungs;  it 
dominated  the  terrible  clamour  of  the  great  crowd  under  the 
trees  of  the  Cours,  rolling  on  and  echoing  in  the  cloud  of  dust 
until  it  reached  the  trees  whereon  it  compelled  the  trembling 
grasshoppers  to  pipe  up  again  as  if  in  mid-day  1 


A  Strange  and  Startling  Puzzle      i6i 

Hearing  that,  Costecalde,  who  had  approached  a  window, 
as  well  as  all  the  others,  returned  to  his  chair  with  unsteady 
steps. 

"  Ve,  Costecalde,"  said  some  one,  "what  is  the  matter? 
How  yellow  he  is!  " 

Every  one  ran  away  then,  for  the  terrible  Tournatoire 
was  bringing  out  his  lancet,  but  the  gun-maker,  writhing 
in  apparent  pain,  murmured,  through  a  hideous  grimace, 
ingenuously, — 

"  Nothing — it  is  nothing.     Leave  me — it  is  the  envy!  " 

Poor  Costecalde,  he  had  indeed  all  the  appearance  of 
suffering ! 

While  these  events  were  taking  place,  at  the  other  side  of 
the  Tour  de  ville,  in  the  chemist's  shop,  Bezuquet's  appren- 
tice, seated  on  his  employer's  counter,  was  patiently  collecting 
and  putting  together  bit  by  bit  the  fragments  left  by  the 
chemist  in  the  waste-paper  basket;  but  the  numerous  pieces 
could  not  be  re-united.  Here  was  the  strange  and  startling 
puzzle  put  before  him,  very  like  a  map  of  Central  Africa,  with 
spaces — the  blanks  of  terra  incognita,  which  the  terrified 
imagination  of  the  simple  banner-bearer  was  exploring, — 

mad  for  love 
lamp  a  chalum  Chicago  preserves 

can  scarce  tear  mys  Nihilist 

to  death  condition  aboin  in  exchange 

of  her  Yoii  know  me,  Ferdi 

know  my  liberal  notions, 
but  from  that  to  Czaricide 

rrible  consequences 
Siberia  hanged  adore  her 

Ah  !  shake  thy  faithful  han 

Tar  Tar 


1 62  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 


VIII 


MEMORABLE  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  THE  JUNGFRAU  AND  TAR- 
TARIN— A  NIHILIST  SALON — THE  DUEL  WITH  HUNTING- 
KNIVES — HORRIBLE  NIGHTMARE — "  'tIS  I  WHOM  YOU 
SEEK,  GENTLEMEN  ?  " — STRANGE  RECEPTION  OF  THE 
TARASCON    DELEGATES    AT   THE    HOTEL    MEYER 

Like  all  the  fashionable  hotels  in  Interlachen,  the  Hotel 
Jungfrau,  kept  by  Meyer,  is  situated  on  the  Hoeheweg,  a 
wide  promenade  between  rows  of  chestnut-trees  which 
vaguely  recalled  to  Tartarin  his  beloved  Tour  de  ville  without 
the  sun,  the  dust,  and  the  grasshoppers,  for  the  rain  had  not 
ceased  for  a  week. 

He  had  a  capital  room,  with  a  balcony,  on  the  first  floor; 
and  in  the  morning,  when  trimming  his  beard  before  a  little 
hand-glass  —  an  old  habit  of  his— the  first  object  that  met 
his  gaze,  beyond  the  corn,  and  the  lavender,  and  the  firs,  in 
a  frame  of  dark  green,  rising  by  successive  stages,  was  the 
Jungfrau,  its  peak-like  summit  emerging  from  the  clouds,  a 
pure  white  mass  of  snovv,  upon  which  the  rays  of  an  invisible 
sunrise  rested  daily.  Then,  between  the  red  and  white  Alp 
and  the  Alpinist  of  Tarascon  arose  a  short  dialogue  which 
was  not  wanting  in  grandeur. 

"  Tartarin,  are  we  ready  ?  "  inquired  the  Jungfrau 
severely. 

"  Voila,  I  am  ready,"  replied  the  hero,  his  thumb  beneath 
his  nose,  hastening  to  finish  his  beard;  and  very  quickly  he 
dressed  as  far  as  his  check  suit,  which  had  not  been  worn  for 
some  days.     He  passed  it  by,  grumbling, — 

"  Coqiiin  de  sort  !  it  is  true  that  is  no  word " 

But  a  clear  and  pleasant  voice  now  arose  amid  the  myrtles 
which  lined  the  windows  of  the  rez-de-chaussee, — 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Sonia,  seeing  him  appear  upon  the 
balcony;  "  the  landau  is  waiting  for  us — make  haste,  you 
Jazy  man !  " 

"  I  am  coming;  I  am  coming!  " 

In  "  two  twos  "  he  had  substituted  a  linen  shirt  for  his 


Tartarin  and  the  Guides  163 

flannel  one;  for  his  knickerbockers  a  serpent-green  suit  with 
which  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  turning  the  heads  of  all  the 
Tarascon  ladies  en  Sundays. 

The  landau  was  waiting  in  front  of  the  hotel.  Sonia  was 
already  seated  beside  her  brother,  who  was  growing  paler  and 
paler  day  by  day,  notwithstanding  the  healthy  air  of  Inter- 
lachen;  but  at  the  moment  of  departure  Tartarin  saw 
approaching,  with  all  the  deliberation  of  bears,  two  famous 
guides  of  Grindelwald,  Rudolf  Kaufmann  and  Christian 
Inebnit,  engaged  by  him  for  the  ascent  of  the  Jungfrau,  and 
who  every  morning  came  to  see  whether  their  employer  was 
disposed  to  attempt  it. 

The  appearance  of  these  two  men,  wearing  strong  hobnailed 
boots,  fustian  jackets,  rubbed  on  the  shoulder  by  the  knap- 
sack and  rope,  their  simple  and  serious  faces,  the  four  words 
of  French  which  they  stumbled  over  as  they  twirled  their 
great  hats  in  their  hands,  was  veritable  torture  for  Tartarin. 
He  had  better  have  said, — 

"  Don't  disturb  yourselves;   I  will  come  to  you  first." 

Every  day  he  found  them  in  the  same  place,  and  got  rid 
of  them  by  a  "  tip  "  in  proportion  to  the  magnitude  of  his 
remorse.  Very  much  delighted  to  do  the  Jungfrau  in  such 
pleasant  fashion,  the  guides  pocketed  the  trinkgeld  gravely, 
and  with  resigned  steps  returned  to  their  village  in  the  fine 
rain,  leaving  Tartarin  confused  and  desperate  in  his  weak- 
ness. But  the  beautiful  air,  the  flowery  plains,  reflected  in 
the  clear  pupils  of  Sonia's  bright  eyes,  the  touch  of  her  little 

foot  on  his  boot  in  the  carriage To  the  devil  with  the 

Jungfrau !  The  hero  only  thought  of  his  love,  or  rather  of 
the  mission  which  had  been  assigned  to  him  to  turn  into  the 
right  way  this  poor  little  Sonia — an  unconscious  criminal, 
cast,  in  consequence  of  her  devotion  to  her  brother,  beyond 
the  pale  of  the  law  and  of  nature. 

This  was  the  motive  which  kept  him  in  Interlachen,  in 
the  same  hotel  as  the  Wassiliefs.  At  his  age,  with  his 
fatherly  air,  he  could  not — it  was  out  of  the  question  that  he 
should — fall  in  love  with  this  child;  only  he  perceived  she 
was  so  gentle,  so  kind,  so  generous  towards  all  the  miserable 
people  of  her  party,  so  devoted  to  her  brother,  who  had 
returned  from  the  Siberian  mines  covered  with  ulcers, 
poisoned  with  verdigris,  condemned  to  death  by  consumn- 

M423 


164  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

tion  more  surely  than  by  any  number  of  courts-martial! 
There  was  something  to  touch  him  in  all  this,  allons  ! 

Tartarin  suggested  that  they  should  come  to  Tarascon, 
and  he  would  accommodate  them  in  a  cottage  full  of  sun- 
light at  the  gates  of  the  town,  that  charming  little  town 
where  it  never  rains,  where  life  passes  in  singing  and  jetes. 
He  got  excited,  pretended  to  play  a  tambourine  on  his  hat, 
and  hummed  the  gay  national  air  to  a  farandole,— 

Lagadigadeu 

la  Jarasco,  La  Tarasco, 

Lagadigadeu 

La  Tarasco  de  Casteu. 

But  while  an  ironical  smile  thinned  the  lips  of  the  invalid, 
Sonia  shook  her  head.  No  fetes,  no  sun  for  her,  so  long  as 
the  Russian  people  groaned  beneath  the  tyrant.  So  soon 
as  her  brother  had  recovered — his  sunken  eyes  told  another 
tale — nothing  would  prevent  her  from  returning  to  Russia  to 
suffer  and  to  die  for  the  sacred  cause. 

"  But,  coquin  de  bon  sort  1 "  exclaimed  Tartarm,  "  after 
this  present  tyrant  has  been  blown  up,  there  will  be  another ! 
You  will  then  have  to  begin  all  over  again!  And  so  time 
passes — ve  1  the  time  for  happiness  and  love."  His  manner 
of  pronouncing  amour,  in  the  Tarascon  dialect,  with  three 
r's,  and  his  eyes  starting  out  of  his  head,  amused  the  young 
girl:  but  then,  seriously,  she  could  never  love  any  man  but 
one  who  would  save  her  native  land.  Yes,  were  he  as  ugly 
as  Bolibine,  more  rustic  and  rough-looking  than  Maniloff, 
she  was  prepared  to  give  herself  up  to  him,  to  live  with  him 
en  litre  grace,  so  long  as  her  youth  lasted,  or  until  he  was 
tired  of  her  ■ 

"En  litre  grace!"  is  the  term  used  by  the  Nihilists  to 
describe  the  unions  illegally  contracted  between  them  by 
mutual  consent.  And  of  this  primitive  style  of  marriage 
Sonia  spoke  calmly,  with  her  maiden  face  opposite  Tartarin, 
a  good  citizen,  a  peaceable  elector, — but  quite  disposed, 
nevertheless,  to  end  his  days  with  this  adorable  girl  in  the 
said  state  of  "  free  grace  "  if  she  had  not  saddled  it  v/ith 
so  many  murders,  and  such-like  horrible  conditions. 

While  they  were  discussing  these  exceedingly  delicate 
topics,  the  fields,  the  lakes,  the  woods,  the  mountains  were 


The  Letters  165 

being  unfolded  before  them,  and  ever,  at  every  turning, 
through  every  shower  of  the  perpetual  wet  days  which 
followed  the  hero  in  his  excursions,  the  Jungfrau  uplifted 
her  white  peak  as  if  to  sharpen  the  edge  of  his  remorse  for 
that  beautiful  excursion.  The  party  returned  to  dejeuner, 
and  seated  themselves  at  the  long  table,  where  the  Rice  and 
Prune  factions  preserved  their  hostile  attitude,  and  silent  as 
ever;  but  Tartarin  was  perfectly  unconcerned  about  them, 
as  he  sat  beside  Sonia,  watching  to  see  that  Boris  did  not 
have  a  window  open  behind  him,  solicitous,  attentive, 
paternal,  airing  all  his  seductions  as  a  man  of  the  world, 
and  his  domestic  qualities  as  an  excellent  domestic  rabbit! 

Afterwards  they  took  tea  in  the  Russian  apartments,  in  the 
little  salon  on  the  ground  floor  at  the  end  of  the  garden, 
by  the  side  of  the  promenade.  Another  charming  hour  of 
intimate  conversation  in  a  low  tone  for  Tartarin,  while  Boris 
slept  on  a  sofa.  The  hot  water  bubbled  in  the  samovar,  a 
smell  of  watered  flowers  came  in  through  the  half-open 
door,  with  the  blue  tint  of  the  glass  frame.  A  little  more 
sun  and  heat,  and  it  would  have  been  the  realisation  of 
Tartarin's  dream — his  little  Russian  seated  by  him,  tending 
the  small  garden  in  which  the  baobab  grew  1 

Suddenly  Sonia  jumped  up, — 

"  Two  o'clock !    And  the  letters?  " 

"  Here  goes,"  cried  the  worthy  Tartarin,  and  by  nothing 
but  his  accent,  the  manner  in  which  he  buttoned  up  his 
coat,  and  balanced  his  cane,  could  you  have  guessed  the 
gravity  of  his  errand,  so  simple  in  appearance,  viz.,  to  go  to 
the  post-ofhce  to  find  the  Wassiliefs'  letters. 

Very  closely  watched  by  the  local  authorities  and  the 
Russian  police,  the  Nihilists,  particularly  the  chiefs,  were 
compelled  to  take  certain  precautions,  such  as  having  their 
letters  addressed  to  the  paste  restante,  and  with  initials 
only. 

Since  their  arrival  at  Interlachen,  Boris  had  scarcely  been 
able  to  get  about.  Tartarin,  with  a  view  to  spare  Sonia 
the  long  wait  at  the  guichet,  under  the  gaze  of  many  eyes, 
was  charged  with  the  risks  and  perils  of  the  correspondence. 
The  post-office  is  only  ten  minutes'  walk  from  the  hotel,  in 
the  wide  street  which  is  a  continuation  of  the  promenade, 
and   bordered   with   cajes,   beer-shops,   shops   for   tourists' 


1 66  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

alpenstocks,  gaiters,  straps,  opera-glasses,  tinted  spectacles, 
flasks,  travelling-bags,  everything  that  would  serve  to  make 
a  renegade  climber  ashamed  of  himself.  Tourists  passed  in 
caravans — horses,  guides,  mules,  blue  veils,  green  veils,  with 
the  rattling  of  canteens,  and  the  ambling  of  animals,  the 
iron  tips  of  sticks  marking  the  steps;  but  this  jete,  ever 
renewed,  left  Tartarin  indifferent.  He  did  not  even  feel  the 
bise  and  the  puffs  of  snow  which  came  down  from  the  moun- 
tains, being  only  attentive  to  throw  off  the  scent  the  spies 
whom  he  believed  were  on  his  track. 

The  first  soldier  of  the  advance  guard,  the  first  skirmisher 
skirting  the  wall  of  an  enemy's  town,  does  not  advance  with 
more  circumspection  than  did  our  hero  during  his  short 
excursion  from  the  hotel  to  the  post-ofhce.  At  the  least 
sound  of  footsteps  behind  him,  he  stopped  attentively  at 
the  photographic  shops,  or  turned  a  few  pages  of  an  English 
or  German  book,  in  order  to  compel  the  detective  to  pass 
him;  or  sometimes  he  would  turn  suddenly  round,  to  per- 
ceive, with  his  fierce  eyes,  a  girl  from  one  of  the  inns  carry- 
ing or  going  for  provisions;  or  some  inoffensive  tourist,  an 
old  Prune  from  the  table  dlioie,  who  would  step  off  the  pave- 
ment astonished,  taking  him  for  an  idiot. 

When  he  reached  the  "  paste,"  the  pigeon-hole  of  which 
opens  right  upon  the  street,  Tartarin  passed  and  repassed 
before  he  approached;  then  suddenly  he  hastened  forward, 
pushed  his  head  and  shoulders  into  the  aperture,  muttering 
some  indistinct  words,  which  they  always  asked  him  to 
repeat,  a  course  which  made  him  savage,  and  at  length, 
having  received  his  letters,  he  regained  the  hotel  by  a  long 
detour  by  the  kitchens,  his  hand  clenched  in  his  pocket  upon 
the  packet  of  letters  and  papers,  ready  to  tear  them  up  and 
swallow  them  on  the  least  alarm. 

Maniloflf  and  Bolibine  nearly  always  waited  for  the  news 
in  their  friends'  apartments.  From  motives  of  prudence 
and  economy  they  did  not  lodge  in  the  hotel.  Bolibine  had 
found  work  in  a  printing-office,  and  Maniloff,  a  very  skilful 
cabinet-maker,  worked  for  contractors.  The  Tarasconnais 
did  not  love  these  men;  the  one  bored  him  with  his  grimaces 
and  his  bantering  manner,  the  other  haunted  him  with  his 
fierce  airs.  Besides,  they  occupied  too  much  of  Sonia's 
heart. 


A  Nlfiilist  Hero  167 

"  He  is  a  hero,"  she  had  said  to  him  when  talking  of 
BoUbine,  and  she  related  how,  during  three  years,  he  had, 
unaided,  printed  a  revolutionary  paper  in  St.  Petersburg. 
Three  years  he  did  this,  without  coming  down  stairs  once, 
and  without  showing  himself  at  a  window,  sleeping  in  a  large 
cupboard,  where  the  woman  with  whom  he  lodged  concealed 
him  every  evening  with  his  clandestine  printing-machine. 

And,  again,  the  life  of  Maniloff  during  six  months  in  the 
underground  cellars  of  the  Winter  Palace,  biding  his  time, 
sleeping  ever\'  night  upon  his  store  of  dynamite,  which  gave 
him  intolerable  headaches,  and  nervous  attacks,  still  more 
enhanced  by  the  ceaseless  anguish,  the  sudden  appearances 
of  the  police  vaguely  conscious  that  a  mine  was  being  pre- 
pared, and  coming  suddenly  to  surprise  the  workmen  em- 
ployed in  the  Palace.  At  his  rare  exits,  Manilofif  would  be 
accosted  on  the  Admiralty  Square  by  a  delegate  of  the 
Revolutionary  Committee,  who  demanded,  in  a  whisper, — 

"Is  it  done?" 

"  No,  nothing  yet,"  the  other  would  reply,  without 
moving  his  lips.  At  length,  one  evening  in  February,  the 
same  question  was  put  in  the  same  terms;  he  replied  with 
the  greatest  coolness, — 

"  It  is  done." 

Almost  immediately  afterwards  a  bewildering  uproar  con- 
firmed his  words,  and  all  the  lights  in  the  Palace  were 
suddenly  extinguished,  the  square  was  plunged  in  the  deepest 
obscurity,  which  was  pierced  only  by  the  cries  of  pain  and 
terror,  the  sounding  of  trumpets,  the  galloping  of  orderlies, 
and  of  the  fire-brigade  hurrying  up  with  their  engines.  .  .  . 

Sonia  paused  in  her  recital, — 

"  Is  this  horrible,  so  many  human  lives  sacrificed  ?  is  so 
much  effort,  courage,  and  intelligence  useless?  No,  no;  yet, 
these  butcheries  en  masse  are  bad.  The  man  they  aim  at 
always  escapes.  The  true  way  to  proceed,  the  most  humane, 
would  be  to  go  to  the  Czar  as  you  would  approach  a  lion, 
determined,  well  armed,  post  yourself  at  a  window,  or  at  the 
door  of  his  carriage,  and  when  he  passes " 

"  Be  out  !  certainly,"  said  Tartarin,  who  felt  much  em- 
barrassed, feigning  not  to  understand  the  allusion;  and 
suddenly  launched  into  some  discussion,  philosophic  or 
humanitarian,    with    some    of    the    others    present.     For 


1 68  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

Bolibine  and  Maniloff  were  not  the  only  visitors  to  the 
Wassiliefs.  Every  day  some  new  faces  came  in,  young 
people,  men  or  women  dressed  as  poor  students  or  fanatical 
teachers,  blonde  and  rosy,  with  the  obstinate  foreheads  and 
the  fierce  childishness  of  Sonia,  law-breakers,  exiles,  some  of 
them  even  under  sentence  of  death,  which  could  in  no  way 
detract  from  their  youthful  expansiveness. 

They  laughed,  chatting  loudly  too,  and  as  the  greater 
number  spoke  French,  Tartarin  quickly  found  himself  at  his 
ease.  They  called  him  "  uncle,"  divining  in  him  something 
infantine,  naif,  which  pleased  them.  Perhaps  he  rather 
carried  his  recitals  of  his  exploits  a  little  too  far,  baring  his 
arm  above  the  elbow  to  show  where  the  panther  had  wounded 
him,  or  displaying  beneath  his  beard  the  holes  which  the 
claws  of  the  lion  of  the  Atlas  had  made;  perhaps,  also,  he 
became  familiar  with  his  friends  too  soon,  putting  his  arm 
round  them,  slapping  them  on  the  shoulders,  calling  them 
by  their  Christian  names  in  about  five  minutes  after  being 
introduced,  as  thus, — 

"  Listen,  Dmitri,"  "  You  know  me,  Fedor  Ivanovitch," 
or  at  any  rate  within  a  very  short  time;  but  he  "  went 
down  "  with  them  all  the  same,  by  his  plain-dealing,  his 
amiability,  his  confident  air,  and  by  his  desire  to  please. 
They  read  their  letters  in  his  presence,  discussed  their  plans 
and  passwords  to  blindfold  the  police — a  purely  con- 
spirators' view  which  tickled  Tartarin's  imagination  very 
much;  and  although  he  was  by  nature  opposed  to  acts  of 
violence,  he  could  not  at  times  help  discussing  their  homicidal 
projects,  approving,  criticising,  offering  advice  dictated  by 
the  experience  of  a  great  chief  who  has  been  upon  the  war- 
path, accustomed  to  the  management  of  all  kinds  of  weapons, 
and  to  personal  encounters  with  wild  beasts. 

One  day,  when  they  were  talking  in  his  presence  of  the 
assassination  of  a  police  officer  by  a  Nihilist  at  the  theatre, 
he  demonstrated  to  them  that  the  thrust  had  been  badly 
given,  and  then  he  gave  them  a  lesson  on  the  use  of  the 
knife, — 

"  Like  this,  ve  I  from  below  upwards.  Thus  you  do  not 
run  any  risk  of  wounding  yourself." 

Then,  exciting  himself  to  his  acting  level,  he  said, — 

"Suppose,   te  I    that  I   have  your   despot  entre  quatre- 


A  Horrible  Nightmare  169 

zyeux  at  a  bear-hunt.  He  is  where  you  are,  Fedor;  I  am 
here  near  the  round  table,  and  each  has  a  hunting-knife. 
We  two,  monseigneur,  we  must  have  a  turn !  " 

Planted  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  bending  his  short  legs 
ready  for  a  spring,  stripped  like  a  woodcutter,  he  imitated 
for  them  a  real  combat,  terminating  with  his  cry  of  triumph 
when  he  had  plunged  his  weapon  to  the  hilt  upwards,  coquin 
de  sort  !  in  the  entrails  of  his  adversary  ! 

"  That  is  how  it  is  done,  young  people,"  he  said. 

But  what  retribution,  what  terrors  he  endured  when  he 
was  no  longer  under  the  influence  of  Sonia's  blue  eyes,  after 
the  mental  intoxication  which  had  produced  this  bouquet 
of  follies,  he  found  himself  alone,  in  his  night-cap,  face  to 
face  with  his  reflections  and  his  usual  nightly  glass  of  eau 
sucree. 

After  all,  in  what  was  he  meddling?  The  Czar  was  not 
his  Czar;  and  all  these  tales  scarcely  concerned  him.  Sup- 
pose that,  one  of  these  days,  he  was  imprisoned,  banished, 
delivered  up  to  Muscovite  justice ! 

Boufre !  all  these  Cossacks  did  not  joke  about  that! 
And  in  the  darkness  of  his  own  room,  with  that  horrible 
faculty  of  imagination  that  the  horizontal  position  increases, 
now  was  opened  out  before  him,  like  one  of  those  sets  of  un- 
folding pictures  which  he  used  to  have  given  him  when  a 
child,  the  varied  and  terrible  punishments  to  which  he  was 
rendering  himself  liable;  Tartarin  in  the  copper-mines,  as 
Boris  had  been,  working  in  water  up  to  his  waist,  his  body 
being  slowly  eaten  away  —  poisoned.  He  escapes!  hides 
himself  in  the  midst  of  snowy  forests,  pursued  by  Tartars 
and  dogs  trained  to  hunt  fugitives.  Worn  out  by  cold  and 
hunger,  he  is  recaptured,  and  finally  hanged  between  two 
convicts,  embraced  by  a  priest  with  shiny  hair,  smelling 
strongly  of  brandy  and  seal-oil,  while  far  away  yonder  at 
Tarascon,  in  the  sunlight,  sound  the  fanfares  of  trumpets  on 
a  fine  Sunday:  the  crowd — the  ungrateful  and  oblivious 
populace — are  installing  the  triumphant  Costecalde  in  the 
chair  of  the  P.  C.  A. ! 

It  was  in  the  agony  of  one  of  these  terrible  dreams  that  he 
shouted,  "  A  moi,  Beziiquet !  "  He  sent  to  the  chemist  that 
confidential  letter  under  the  influence  of  that  horrible  night- 
mare.    But  the  gentle  "  Good  morning  "  of  Sonia  again 


170  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

bewitched  him,  and  threw  him  once  again  into  all  the  weak- 
ness of  indecision. 

One  evening,  when  returning  from  the  Kursaal  to  the 
hotel  with  the  Wassiliefs  and  Bolibine,  after  two  hours  of 
enthralling  music,  the  miserable  man  forgot  all  prudence, 
and  the  words  "  Sonia,  I  love  you!  "  which  he  had  so  long 
restrained,  he  at  length  pronounced,  grasping  the  little  arm 
which  rested  on  his  own.  She  made  no  sign  of  emotion,  but 
looked  at  him  fixedly,  very  pale,  under  the  gas-light  where 
they  had  stopped:  "  Well  then,  deserve  me,"  she  said,  with 
a  charming  but  puzzling  smile,  which  displayed  all  her 
beautiful  teeth.  Tartarin  was  about  to  reply,  binding  him- 
self, by  an  oath,  to  perform  any  deadly  deed,  when  the 
chasseur  of  the  hotel  came  up  and  said, — 

"  There  are  some  people  for  you,  upstairs, — some  gentle- 
men.    They  are  looking  for  you !  " 

"Looking  for  me!  Outre!  What  for?"  Then 
Number  i  of  his  dioramic  views  came  before  his  mind's  eye: 
Tartarin  imprisoned — exiled!  Certainly  he  was  afraid,  but 
his  attitude  was  heroic.  Separating  himself  quickly  from 
Sonia,  he  said  in  a  choking  voice,  "  Fly !  save  yourself !  " 
Then  he  ascended  the  stairs,  with  head  erect,  and  proud 
mien,  as  if  he  were  going  to  execution;  but  so  nervous, 
nevertheless,  that  he  was  obliged  to  grasp  the  banisters  for 
support. 

When  he  gained  the  corridor,  he  perceived  a  group  of  men 
at  the  door  of  his  apartment,  looking  through  the  keyhole, 
knocking,  and  calling  to  him. 

He  advanced  two  paces,  and  then  with  parched  lips 
managed  to  say,  "  Do  you  want  me,  gentlemen?  " 

"  Te,  pardi  1  yes,  my  President!  " 

A  little  elderly  man,  brisk  and  bony,  dressed  in  a  grey  suit, 
and  who  seemed  to  be  carrying  on  his  coat,  his  hat,  his 
gaiters,  his  long  pendent  moustaches,  all  the  dust  of  the 
Tour  de  ville,  fell  upon  the  neck  of  our  hero,  rubbing  against 
his  soft  and  chubby  cheeks  the  tough  hide  of  the  old 
captain. 

"  Bravida!  it  is  impossible!  Excourbani^s,  too! — and 
who  is  that  yonder?  " 

A  bleating  voice  replied,  "Dear  ma-as-ter!"  Then  the 
pupil  advanced,  knocking  against  the  wall  as  he  came  a 


Strange  Reception  of  the  Delegates      171 

species  of  long  fishing-rod,  thick  at  the  top,  and  swathed  in 
silver  paper  and  oil-cloth. 

"  He  I  ve,  it  is  Pascalon.  Let  us  embrace,  petitot !  But 
what  are  you  carrying?     Put  it  down!  " 

"  The  paper — undo  the  paper,"  puffed  the  Commandant. 
The  youth  unrolled  it  quickly,  and  the  Tarascon  banner  was 
displayed  to  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  Tartarin. 

The  delegates  took  off  their  hats. 

"  My  President  " — Bravida's  voice  was  trembling,  solemn, 
and  husky — "  you  demanded  the  banner;  we  have  brought 
it  to  you — te  !  " 

The  President  opened  his  eyes  until  they  became  as  large 
as  apples, — 

"I!  /asked  for  it.?" 

"  What!  didn't  you  ask  for  it.?  " 

"  Ah !  yes,  parfaitemain,"  replied  Tartarin,  suddenly  en- 
lightened by  the  name  of  Bezuquet.^ 

Now  he  understood  it  all,  and  guessed  what  had  happened ; 
and  feeling  overcome  by  the  ingenious  deception  which 
Bezuquet  had  practised  with  a  view  to  recall  him  to  his 
duty  and  to  honour,  he  choked,  and  muttered  in  his  beard: 
"Ah,  my  children,  this  is  kind  —  what  good  vou  do 
me!" 

"  Vive  le  Presidain  I "  squeaked  Pascalon,  brandishing 
his  "  oriflamme."  The  Gong  sounded  loudly,  and  shouted 
his  war-whoop,  "Ha!  ha!  ha!  fen  de  brutl"  which  pene- 
trated to  the  cellars  of  the  hotel.  Doors  were  opened, 
curious  faces  appeared  on  every  floor.  These  disappeared 
quickly  at  the  sight  of  the  standard  and  of  the  dark  and 
shaggy  men  who  hurled  out  strange  defiances  with  extended 
arms.  Never  had  such  a  row  been  heard  in  the  peaceful 
Jungfrau  hotel  before. 

"  Come  into  my  room,"  said  Tartarin,  somewhat  ashamed. 
They  were  feeling  their  way  in  the  darkness,  seeking  the 
match-box,  when  an  authoritative  rap  at  the  door  caused 
it  to  open  and  disclose  the  arrogant,  yellow,  puffed  visage  of 
Meyer,  the  hotel  proprietor.  He  was  about  to  enter  the 
room,  but  stopped  in  the  darkness,  in  which  his  fiery  eyes 
gleamed,  on  the  sill,  his  teeth  clenched  on  his  hard  Teutonic 
accents, — 

*  Bezuquet  is  not  mentioned. — Trans. 


172  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

"  Mind  you  ;keep  quiet,  or  I  will  have  you  all  taken  up  by 
the  police." 

A  bellow  as  from  a  buffalo  followed  this  discourteous 
speech,  and  the  brutal  use  of  the  word  "  ramasser."  The 
landlord  retreated  a  pace,  but  flung  another  sentence  into  the 
room, — 

"We  know  who  you  are!  Be  off!  We  have  our  eyes 
upon  you;  and  I  do  not  want  any  more  people  like  you  in 
the  house !  " 

"  Monsieur  Meyer,"  replied  Tartarin  calmly,  politely,  but 
very  firmly,  "  get  my  bill  made  out;  these  gentlemen  and  I 
will  leave  for  the  Jungfrau  to-morrow  morning." 

0,  native  land,  O,  little  country  in  the  great  one,  what 
influence  is  thine !  It  was  sufficient  to  hear  the  Tarascon 
dialect  rustling,  with  the  country  air,  the  blue  folds  of  the 
banner — when,  lo !  there  is  Tartarin  delivered  from  his  love, 
and  from  the  snares  which  surrounded  him,  restored  to  his 
friends,  his  mission,  and  to  glory ! 

Now,  zou  I 


xr 

AT   THE   SIGN   OF   "  THE   FAITHFUL   CHAMOIS  " 

Next  day  it  was  delightful  to  take  the  footpath  from  Inter- 
lachen  to  Grindelwald,  which  the  tourists  were  obliged  to 
pass  to  pick  up  the  guides  for  the  Little  Scheideck;  delightful, 
the  triumphal  march  of  the  P.  C.  A.,  once  more  equipped  in 
his  mountaineering  habiliments,  supported  on  one  side  by 
the  thin  shoulder  of  the  Commandant  Bravida,  on  the  other 
by  the  robust  arm  of  Excourbanies,  both  proud  to  escort 
him,  to  sustain  their  dear  President,  to  carry  his  ice-axe,  his 
sac,  his  alpenstock;  while  sometimes  in  front,  and  some- 
times behind,  or  on  the  flank,  Pascalon  gamboled  like  a  little 
dog,  carrying  his  banner,  wisely  packed  up,  so  as  to  avoid 
any  demonstration  such  as  they  had  had  the  evening  before. 
The  high  spirits  of  his  companions,  the  sentiment  of  duty 
done,  the  snowy  Jungfrau  yonder,  were  not  sufficient  to 


The  President  and  His  Escort        173 

make  the  hero  forget  what  he  had  left  behind  him,  perhaps 
for  ever,  and  without  a  farewell!  As  he  passed  the  last 
houses  of  Interlachen,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  while  he 
was  walking  he  unbosomed  himself,  turn  about,  to  Excour- 
bani^s  with  "  Listen,  Spiridion,"  or  to  Bravida  with  "  You 
know  me,  Placide  " — for,  by  the  irony  of  fate,  the  invincible 
soldier  was  called  Placide,  and  the  rough  "  buffalo,"  with 
material  instincts,  Spiridion. 

Unfortunately,  the  Tarascon  race,  more  brave  than  senti- 
mental, never  could  take  love  affairs  seriously.  "  Whoever 
loses  a  woman  and  fifteen  pence,  is  to  be  condoled  with  for 
the  loss  of  the  money,"  replied  the  sententious  Placide,  and 
Spiridion  quite  agreed  with  him.  As  for  the  innocent 
Pascalon,  he  held  women  in  fear,  and  blushed  to  the  eyes 
when  they  pronounced  the  name  of  la  Petite  Scheideck  in  his 
hearing,  having  a  kind  of  notion  that  it  referred  to  a  lady 
of  somewhat  free-and-easy  manners.  The  poor  lover  was, 
therefore,  obliged  to  keep  his  thoughts  to  himself,  and  to 
console  himself  alone,  which  is,  after  all,  the  safest  course. 

Besides,  what  worries  could  resist  the  attractions  of  the 
route  across  the  narrow,  deep,  and  shaded  valley,  where  the 
tourists  skirted  a  winding  river,  white  with  foam,  and  roar- 
ing like  thunder  amid  the  echoing  pines  which  overhung 
and  surrounded  it  on  both  its  sloping  sides ! 

The  Tarasconnais  delegates,  with  their  heads  held  high, 
advanced  with  a  feeling  akin  to  terror  in  "  religious  "  admira- 
tion; like  the  companions  of  Sindbad  the  Sailor,  when  they 
saw  the  mangroves  and  other  gigantic  flora  of  the  Indian 
coasts.  Only  hitherto  acquainted  with  their  little  bare  and 
stony  hills,  they  had  no  idea  that  there  could  possibly  grow 
so  many  trees  at  once,  on  such  very  high  mountains  too ! 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing;  wait  until  }'ou  see  the  Jungfrau," 
remarked  the  P.  C.  A.,  who  quite  enjoyed  their  surprise,  and 
felt  himself  growing  bigger  in  their  estimation. 

At  the  same  time,  to  enliven  the  scene  and  to  humanise  its 
imposing  strain,  many  parties  of  people  passed  them  en  route 
— large  landaus  at  full  trot,  with  veils  floating  from  the 
doors — heads  were  bent  in  curiosity  to  see  the  President 
surrounded  by  the  delegation;  while  from  time  to  time 
woodcarvers'  stalls  were  passed;  little  girls  standing  by  the 
wayside,  looking  very  wooden-y  in  their  straw  hats  with  wide 


I  74  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

ribbons,  and  party-coloured  skirts,  singing  in  chorus  of  three 
voices,  and  offering  bouquets  of  raspberry-sprays  and 
edelweiss.  Sometimes  the  Alpine  horn  would  echo  through 
the  mountains  its  melancholy  notes,  swelling  up,  and  repeated 
by  the  gorges,  then  slowly  dying  away  after  the  manner  of  a 
cloud  resolving  into  vapour. 

"It  is  beautiful.  One  might  fancy  it  the  notes  of  an 
organ,"  murmured  Pascalon,  who,  with  moist  eyes,  was  in 
ecstasy  like  a  saint  in  a  stained-glass  window.  Excour- 
Iianies  shouted  without  any  fear,  and  the  echo  repeated 
itself  in  his  Tarascon  dialect  until  it  finally  died  away: 
"Ha!   ha!   ha!   fen  de  brut  T' 

But  they  got  tirtd  of  this  in  about  two  hours,  proceeding 
through  the  same  scenery — was  it  all  arranged.? — green  on 
blue ;  glaciers  at  the  bottom ;  and  as  sonorous  as  a  musical 
clock.  The  roar  of  the  torrents,  the  three-voice  choruses, 
the  sellers  of  wood-carvings,  the  little  flower-girls,  became 
insupportable  to  our  friends:  the  dampness,  too,  the  steam 
at  the  bottom  of  this  gorge,  the  humid  ground,  full  of  water- 
plants,  into  which  the  sun  never  penetrates. 

"It  is  enough  to  give  one  pleurisy,"  remarked  Bravida, 
pulling  up  his  coat-collar.  Then  fatigue,  hunger,  and  ill- 
humour  all  attacked  him  at  once.  They  could  find  no  inn, 
and,  being  stuffed  with  raspberries,  Excourbani^s  and 
Bravida  began  to  suffer  cruelly.  Even  Pascalon  himself — 
that  angel — laden  not  only  with  the  flag,  but  with  the  ice- 
axe,  the  sac,  and  the  alpenstock,  of  which  the  others  had  by 
turns  disembarrassed  themselves,  had  lost  his  sprightliness 
and  activity. 

At  a  turn  of  the  road,  as  they  were  about  to  cross  the 
Lutschine  on  one  of  the  covered  bridges  which  are  found  in 
very  snowy  districts,  a  very  formidable  blowing  of  a  horn 
reached  their  ears. 

"Ah!  ve  I  enough!  enough!  "  screamed  the  exasperated 
delegation. 

The  blower — a  giant  ambushed  by  the  side  of  the  road — 
put  down  an  enormous  pine-trumpet,  which  rested  on  the 
ground  and  was  terminated  by  a  sounding-box  which  gave 
to  this  prehistoric  instrument  the  loudness  of  a  piece  of 
artillery. 

"Ask  him  whether  he  knows  where  there  is  an  inn?" 


"The  Faithful  Chamois"  175 

said  the  President  to  Excourbani^s,  who  with  great  dignity, 
and  with  a  very  small  pocket-dictionary,  pretended  to  act 
as  interpreter  to  the  delegation  since  they  were  in  German 
Switzerland.  But  before  he  could  produce  his  dictionary,  the 
horn-blower  replied  in  very  good  French, — 

"  An  inn,  gentlemen  ?  why,  certainly :  the  Chamois  fidele  is 
quite  close  by:   allow  me  to  show  you  the  way?  " 

And  while  he  accompanied  them  thither  he  informed  them 
that  he  had  lived  in  Paris  many  years  as  commissionaire  at 
the  corner  of  the  Rue  Vivienne. 

"  Another  of  the  Company's  people,  parbleu  I  "  thought 
Tartarin,  leaving  his  friends  to  be  amazed.  The  confrere  of 
Bompard  also  made  himself  very  useful,  for  although  the  sign 
of  the  house  was  in  French,  the  people  of  the  Chamois  fidele 
only  spoke  a  horrible  German  patois. 

The  delegates,  seated  before  an  enormous  potato  omelette, 
soon  recovered  their  health  and  good  humour,  which  are 
essential  to  the  Southerner  as  the  sun  is  to  his  country.  They 
drank  deeply,  and  ate  well.  After  toasts  drunk  to  the 
President  and  to  his  ascent,  Tartarin,  who  had  been  much 
exercised  in  his  mind  concerning  the  sign,  turned  to  the 
hom-player,  who  was  breaking  a  crust  in  the  same  room 
with  them,  and  said, — • 

"  So  you  have  some  chamois  hereabouts?  I  thought  none 
were  left  in  Switzerland." 

The  man  winked  his  eyes,— 

"  There  are  not  many  of  them,  but  we  could  manage  to  let 
you  see  one  all  the  same !  " 

"  He  wants  to  shoot  at  one,  ve  !  "  said  Pascalon  enthu- 
siastically, "  and  the  President  never  misses  his  aim." 

Tartarin  was  sorry  he  had  not  brought  his  gun. 

"  Wait  a  minute;  I  will  speak  to  the  '  patron.'  " 

He  ascertained  that  the  innkeeper  was  an  old  chamois- 
hunter;  he  offered  his  gun,  powder,  his  buckshot,  and  even 
his  services  as  guide  to  the  gentlemen,  towards  a  lair  which 
he  knew. 

"  En  avant  ;  zou  1 "  cried  Tartarin,  yielding  to  his  Alpinists, 
who  were  delighted  to  witness  their  chief's  skill.  It  was  only 
a  trifling  delay  after  all;  and  the  Jungfrau  would  lose 
nothing  by  waiting. 

Leaving  the  inn  by  the  back  door,  they  had  only  to  push 


176  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

through  a  path  in  an  orchard  scarcely  larger  than  the  little 
garden  of  a  station-master  on  a  railway,  to  find  themselves 
on  the  mountain  side,  cut  up  by  great  crevasses  between  the 
pines  and  the  bushes. 

The  innkeeper  had  gone  on  ahead,  and  the  delegates  could 
perceive  him  gesticulating  and  throwing  stones,  no  doubt 
with  a  view  to  startling  the  animal.  They  had  considerable 
trouble  to  rejoin  him  on  the  rocky  and  difficult  slopes,  par- 
ticularly for  people  who  have  just  got  up  from  table,  and 
who  are  no  more  accustomed  to  climbing  than  the  worthy 
Tarasconnais  were.  There  was,  besides,  a  heavy  air,  a 
pressage  of  storm,  which  rolled  the  clouds  slowly  across  the 
peaks  overhead. 

"  Boujre  !  "  whined  Bravida. 

Excourbanies  groaned, — 

"  Outre  !  " 

"  Let  me  tell  you — "  added  the  tame  and  bleating  Pascalon. 

But  as  the  guide  motioned  them  to  be  silent  and  to  stay 
where  they  were,  they  Obeyed.  "  One  should  never  speak 
when  carrying  arms,"  said  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  with  a 
severity  of  which  each  took  his  share,  although  the  President 
was  the  only  one  armed.  They  remained  standing  and 
holding  their  breath;  suddenly  Pascalon  exclaimed:  "  Ve  1 
the  chamois !  Ve  !  " 

At  a  hundred  yards  above  them  there  stood  the  pretty 
animal,  his  horns  upright,  his  coat  a  pretty  fawn  colour,  the 
four  feet  planted  together  upon  a  rock.  It  was  plainly 
visible  against  the  sky,  looking  around  without  any  appear- 
ance of  fear.  Tartarin  methodically  shouldered  his  gun  as 
usual :  he  was  going  to  fire,  when  the  chamois  disappeared ! 

"  It  is  your  fault,"  said  the  Commandant  to  Pascalon. 
"  You  whistled — that  frightened  it," 

"I  whistled!  I!" 

"  Then  it  was  Spiridion." 

"  Ah !  vdi ;  I  never  whistled  in  my  life." 

There  had  nevertheless  been  a  whistle,  shrill  and  long. 
The  President  put  them  all  at  their  ease  by  informing  them 
that  the  chamois  at  the  approach  of  an  enemy  utters  a 
whistling  noise  through  his  nostrils.  What  a  devil  of  a 
fellow  Tartarin  was!  he  knew  all  the  details  of  chamois- 
hunting  as  well  as  of  all  the  other  sports.     At  the  guide's 


A  Regular  Panic  177 

suggestion  they  continued  their  way;  but  the  slope  became 
more  and  more  steep,  the  rocks  more  uneven,  with  sloughs 
and  gullies  to  right  and  left.  Tartarin  kept  his  presence  of 
mind,  turning  round  every  moment  to  assist  the  delegates, 
to  hold  out  his  hand  or  his  gun  to  them. 

".The  hand,  the  hand !  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you,"  ex- 
claimed the  brave  Bravida,  who  had  a  mortal  horror  of 
loaded  firearms. 

Another  sign  from  the  guide — another  halt. 

"  I  think  I  felt  a  drop  of  rain,"  muttered  the  Commandant, 
who  was  very  anxious.  At  the  same  time  it  thundered,  and 
louder  than  the  thunder  rose  the  voice  of  Excourbani^s: 
"Look  out,  Tartarin!"  The  chamois  came  on,  bounding 
between  them  like  a  flash^ — too  quick  for  even  Tartarin  to 
shoulder  his  gun,  not  quick  enough  though  to  prevent  them 
from  hearing  the  loud  whistling  of  his  nostrils. 

"  I  will  give  an  account  of  him,  coquin  de  sort !  "  said 
the  President;  but  the  delegates  protested.  Excourbani^s 
suddenly  very  sharply  asked  him  if  he  had  sworn  to  exter- 
minate them. 

"  Dear  ma-as-ter,"  bleated  Pascalon,  timidly,  "  I  have 
heard  it  said  that  the  chamois  when  driven  to  bay  turns 
against  the  hunter,  and  becomes  very  dangerous." 

"  Don't  let  us  bring  him  to  bay,  then,"  said  Bravida  the 
terrible. 

Tartarin  called  them  chicken-hearted  milksops.  Then 
suddenly,  while  they  were  disputing,  they  lost  sight  of  each 
other  in  a  thick,  warm  cloud  which  smelt  of  sulphur,  and 
through  which  they  kept  searching  for  each  other,  calling 
out, — ■ 

''He!  Tartarin!" 

"  Are  you  there,  Placide!  " 

"  Ma-as-ter!  " 

"  Keep  cool!  keep  cool!  " 

There  was  a  regular  panic.  Then  a  gust  of  wind  dispersed 
the  cloud,  carried  it  away  like  a  veil  torn  off  the  bushes, 
and  from  it  came  a  forked  flash  of  lightning,  followed  by  an 
awful  crash  of  thunder  under  their  very  feet  as  it  seemed. 

"  My  cap!  "  exclaimed  Spiridion,  whose  hair  was  standing 
up  quite  electrified,  his  headgear  having  been  carried  off 
by  the  tempest.    They  were  in  the  heart  of  the  storm — in 


178  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

Vulcan's  forge  itself.  Bravida  first  fled  at  full  speed;  the 
remainder  of  the  delegation  followed  him ;  but  one  cry  from 
the  P.  C.  A.,  who  thougki  for  them  all,  restrained  them, — 

"  Malheur eux!  beware  of  the  lightning  !  " 

Besides,  outside  of  the  real  dangers  which  threatened  them, 
they  could  scarcely  run  upon  the  steep  slopes,  across  ravines 
now  transformed  into  torrents  and  cascades  by  the  rain. 
Their  return  was  disastrous,  at  a  slow  pace,  amid  the  lightning, 
the  thunder,  their  tumbles,  glissades,  and  forced  halts. 
Pascalon  crossed  himself,  and  appealed  aloud  as  at  Tarascon 
to  Saint  Martha,  Saint  Helena,  and  Saint  Mary  Magdalen, 
while  Excourbanies  swore  *'  Coqiiin  de  sort !  "  and  Bravida, 
who  brought  up  the  rear,  turning  round  in  a  nervous  state, 
said, — 

"What  is  that  I  hear  coming  behind  us?  that  sniffing, 
that  gallop,  —  there  —  it  has  stopped!"  The  idea  of  the 
maddened  chamois  throwing  itself  upon  the  hunters  could  not 
be  banished  from  the  mind  of  the  old  warrior.  In  a  low  tone, 
so  as  not  to  alarm  the  others,  he  imparted  his  fears  to  Tar- 
tarin, who  bravely  changed  places  with  him,  and  marched 
last  with  head  held  high,  wet  to  the  skin,  yet  with  the  inward 
determination  which  imminent  danger  bestows!  But  when 
they  had  regained  the  inn,  and  when  he  saw  his  dear  Alpinists 
in  shelter,  in  a  fair  way  to  dry  themselves  around  an  enormous 
faience  stove,  in  a  room  on  the  first  floor,  whence  was  ascend- 
ing the  odour  of  hot  grog  and  wine,  then  the  President  felt 
himself  shiver,  and  he  declared  with  a  very  pale  face:  "  I 
really  believe  I  am  taken  ill." 

Taken  ill!  an  expression  of  sinister  meaning  m  its  \ctgue- 
ness  and  brevity,  which  hinted  at  all  kinds  of  maladies — 
— plague,  cholera,  yellow  fever,  "  blue  devils,"  jaundice,  and 
lightning-strokes,  the  thought  of  which  always  occurred  to 
the  Tarasconnais  at  the  least  indisposition. 

Tartarin  was  taken  ill !  There  could,  therefore,  be  no 
question  of  continuing  the  journey,  and  the  delegates  only 
cared  for  rest.  Quickly  they  warmed  his  bed,  plied  him  with 
wine,  and  at  the  second  glass  the  President  felt  a  grateful 
warmth  permeate  his  body :  a  good  omen !  Two  pillows  at 
his  back,  an  eider-down  on  his  feet,  his  comforter  tied  over 
his  head,  he  experienced  a  delicious  satisfaction  in  listening 
to  the  roarings  of  the  storm ;  in  the  pleasant  smell  of  the  pines; 


The  Chamois  !  179 

in  the  little  rustic,  wooden  inn,  with  latticed  windows;  in 
regarding  his  friends,  the  dear  Alpinists,  who  pressed  around 
his  bed,  glasses  in  hand,  looking  such  queer  figures  in  their 
odd  costumes  of  curtains  and  such  materials,  with  their 
Gallic,  Saracen,  or  Roman  types  of  features,  while  their 
clothes  were  drying  before  the  stove.  Forgetting  himself,  he 
questioned  them  in  a  doleful  voice, — 

"  Are  you  quite  well,  Placide?  Spiridion,  you  seemed  to 
be  unwell  just  now." 

No,  Spiridion  suffered  no  longer,  it  had  all  passed  away 
when  the  President  was  taken  so  ill.  Bravida,  who  suited 
the  moral  to  the  proverbs  of  his  country,  added  cynically: 
"  The  sickness  of  a  neighbour  comforts  and  even  cures  us." 
Then  they  spoke  of  their  hunting,  warming  at  the  recollection 
of  certain  dangerous  incidents,  such  as  when  the  animal  had 
turned  upon  them  furiously ;  and  without  any  complicity  of 
lying,  they  very  ingeniously  fabricated  a  fable  which  they 
would  relate  on  their  return. 

Suddenly,  Pascalon,  who  had  gone  downstairs  for  another 
modicum  of  grog,  reappeared  in  the  greatest  alarm — a  naked 
arm  outside  his  blue-flowered  curtain,  which  he  gathered 
around  him  with  modest  gesture  a  la  Polyeucie.  He  was 
more  than  a  second  in  the  room  before  he  could  utter  in  a 
low  voice  and  with  quick  breathing, — 

"  The  chamois!  " 

"Well,  what  about  it?" 

"  It  is  downstairs,  in  the  kitchen !  " 

"  Ah,  go  along!  " 

"  You  are  joking!  " 

"  Will  you  go  and  see,  Placide  ?  " 

Bravida  hesitated ;  so  Excourbanies  descended  on  tip-toe ; 
and  then  returned  almost  immediately,  with  a  scared  face. 
More  extraordinary  news  still — 

The  chamois  was  drinking  warm  wine ! 

They  owed  him  as  much,  poor  beast,  after  the  pretended 
hunt  he  had  afforded  them  on  the  mountain,  all  the  time 
started  ofT  or  recalled  by  his  master,  who  usually  contented 
himself  with  putting  it  through  its  paces  in  the  salle  to  show 
tourists  how  easily  it  had  been  tamed. 

"  This  is  crushing,"  said  Bravida,  not  caring  to  understand 
any  more  about  it,  while  Tartarin  pulled  the  comforter  over 

N423 


i8o  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

his  face  to  hide  from  the  delegates  the  gentle  mirth  which 
overspread  his  features,  when  at  any  stage  of  his  journey  he 
encountered  the  all-satisfying  Switzerland  of  Bompard,  with 
its  mechanism  and  its  supernumeraries  1 


X 

THE  ASCENT  OF  THE  JUNGFRAU — VE !  THE  OXEN  ! — THE 
KENNEDY  "  CRAMPONS  "  DO  NOT  ANSWER;  NEITHER 
DOES  THE  LAMP — APPEARANCE  OF  MASKED  MEN  AT  THE 
CHALET — THE  PRESIDENT  IN  THE  CREVASSE — HE  LEAVES 
HIS  SPECTACLES  BEHIND  HIM — ON  THE  PEAKS — TARTARIN 
A  DEITY 

There  was  a  tremendous  crowd  that  morning  at  the  Belle 
Vue  Hotel  on  the  Little  Scheideck.  Notwithstanding  the 
rain  and  the  squalls,  the  tables  had  been  laid  out  of  doors, 
under  the  shelter  of  the  veranda,  amongst  an  assemblage  of 
alpenstocks,  flasks,  telescopes,  cuckoo-clocks,  etc. ;  and  the 
tourists  could,  while  breakfasting,  gaze  to  the  left  upon  the 
valley  of  Grindelwald,  some  6000  feet  below;  on  the  right 
the  Lauterbrunnen  valley,  and  in  front  of  them,  at  what 
seemed  within  gun-shot  distance,  the  pure  and  stupendous 
slopes  of  the  Jungfrau,  with  its  i.eve,  its  glaciers,  the  white- 
ness of  it  all  illuminating  the  air  around,  making  the  glasses 
still  more  transparent  and  the  table-linen  still  more  snowy. 

But  for  the  moment  the  attention  of  the  company  was 
directed  to  a  noisy  bearded  party  of  tourists,  who  were  coming 
up  on  mule-back,  on  donkey-back,  one  man  even  in  a  chaise  a 
porteurs,  who  prepared  themselves  for  the  ascent,  by  a 
copious  breakfast;  they  were  in  high  spirits,  and  the  noise 
they  made  contrasted  greatly  with  the  worn-out  and  solemn 
airs  of  the  Rice  and  Prune  factions,  some  illustrious  members 
of  which  had  assembled  at  the  Scheideck:  Lord  Chippendale, 
the  Belgian  Senator  and  his  family,  the  Austro-Hungarian 
diplomatist  and  his  family.  It  seemed  as  if  all  these  bearded 
people  were  about  to  attempt  the  ascent,  for  they  occupied 
themselves  in  turn  with  the  preparations  for  departure,  rose. 


The  Ascent  of  the  Jungfrau        i8i 

hurried  off  to  give  instructions  to  the  guides ;  to  inspect  the 
provisions,  and  from  one  end  of  the  terrace  to  the  other  they 
shouted  to  each  other  in  discordant  accents, — 

"  He  !  Placide,  see  if  the  frying-pan  is  in  the  bag,  and 
don't  forget  the  spirit-lamp,  mind!  " 

When  the  starting  time  arrived,  however,  it  was  perceived 
that  all  this  was  on  account  of  one,  and  that  of  all  the  party 
one  individual  alone  was  going  to  undertake  the  ascent ! 
But  what  an  individual ! 

"  Children,  are  we  ready  ?  "  sa'd  the  good  Tartarin,  in  a 
triumphant  and  joyful  tone,  which  did  not  tremble  with  the 
shadow  of  a  fear  for  the  possible  perils  of  the  journey,  his 
last  doubt  concerning  the  "  machinery  "  of  the  Swiss  having 
been  dissipated  that  morning  before  the  two  Grindelwald 
glaciers,  each  provided  with  a  turn-stile  and  a  gidchet  with  an 
inscription,  "  Entrance  to  the  glacier,  one  franc  and  a  half." 

He  could  then  enjoy  this  departure  without  regret:  the 
delight  of  feeling  himself  the  observed  of  all  observers; 
envied,  admired,  by  those  cheeky  little  girls  with  the 
close-cropped  hair,  who  had  laughed  at  him  so  quietly  on 
the  Rigi-Kulm;  and  who  were  at  that  very  moment  in 
raptures,  comparing  that  little  man  with  that  enormous 
mountain  which  he  was  going  to  ascend.  One  was  sketch- 
ing him  in  her  album,  another  was  requesting  the  honour 
of  holding  his  alpenstock.  "  Tchimppegne — Tchimppegne," 
suddenly  cried  a  lanky,  melancholy  Englishman,  of  brick- 
tint,  who  was  approaching  with  a  bottle  and  a  glass  in  his 
hands.  Then,  after  haA^ng  compelled  the  hero  to  drink, 
he  said, — 

"  Lord  Chippendale,  sir;   d  v6  ?  " 

"  Tartarin  de  Tarascon." 

"  Oh,  yes, — Tarterine.  It's  a  capital  name  for  a  horse," 
said  his  lordship,  who  must  have  been  a  great  sportsman  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Channel ! 

The  Austro-Hungarian  diplomatist  also  came  forward  to 
shake  the  mountaineer  by  the  hand  between  his  mittens — 
having  a  vague  recollection  of  having  met  him  somewhere. 
"  Delighted,  delighted,"  he  repeated  many  times,  and,  not 
knowing  how  to  get  out  of  it,  he  added:  "  My  compliments 
to  Madame," — his  society  formula,  by  which  he  concluded 
all  introductions. 


I  82  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

But  the  guides  were  becoming  impatient.  The  cabin  of 
the  Alpine  Club  must  be  reached  before  dark;  there  they 
would  sleep,  and  there  was  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Tartarin 
quite  understood  this,  and  saluted  the  company  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand,  smiled  paternally  at  the  malicious  "  misses,"  and 
then,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  cried, — 

"  Pascalon,  the  banner!  " 

It  was  displayed,  the  Southerners  had  unfolded  it,  for  they 
like  theatrical  display;  and  at  the  thirtieth  repetition  of 
"  Vive  le  President  1  "  "  Vive  Tartarin  !  "  "  Ha!  ha!  jen  de 
brut,''  the  party  started — the  two  guides  in  front  carrjnng  the 
sac,  the  provisions,  and  some  wood;  then  Pascalon,  holding 
the  "  oriflamme;  "  and  the  P.  C.  A.  with  the  delegates,  who 
were  to  escort  him  to  the  Guggi  glacier,  brought  up  the  rear. 
So  the  procession  deployed,  the  folds  of  the  flag  flapping 
upon  the  swampy  ground,  or  on  the  naked  or  snowy  crests, 
the  cortege  in  a  vague  way  recalling  le  jour  des  worts  in  country 
places. 

Suddenly,  the  Commandant  cried  out  in  great  alarm, — 

"  Vef  oxen!" 

They  perceived  some  cattle  grazing  amid  the  undulations 
of  the  ground.  The  old  warrior  had  a  nervous  terror  of  cows 
— an  insurmountable  fear;  and  as  his  friends  could  not  leave 
him  alone,  the  delegation  was  obliged  to  halt.  Pascalon 
handed  the  banner  to  one  of  the  guides ;  then  a  last  embrace, 
a  few  hurried  words  of  warning,  with  their  eyes  on  the  cows, — 

"  Adieu,  que  !  " 

"  No  imprudence,  mind! "' 

And  they  parted. 

As  for  any  one  proposing  to  ascend  with  the  President,  it 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  The  ascent  was  too  high,  boufre  ! 
As  one  got  nearer  to  it,  it  seemed  more  difficult,  the  ravines 
increased,  the  peaks  bristled  up  in  a  white  chaos  which 
seemed  impossible  to  traverse.  It  was  much  better  worth 
while  to  watch  the  ascent  from  the  Scheideck. 

Naturally,  Tartarin  in  all  his  life  had  never  set  foot  on  a 
glacier.  There  were  no  such  things  upon  the  hillocks  of 
Tarascon,  which  were  as  perfumed  and  dry  as  a  bundle  of 
bent-grass.  Yet  the  surroundings  of  the  Guggi  gave  him 
a  sensation  of  familiarity,  as  if  he  had  seen  them  before — 
arousing  the  memory  of  the  chase  in  Pro\-ence,  all  around  the 


The  Kennedy  Crampons  183 

Camargue,  towards  the  sea.  It  was  the  same  grass,  but 
shorter  and  burnt  up  as  if  scorched  by  fire.  Here  and  there 
were  pools  of  water,  infiltrations,  indicated  by  slim  reeds; 
then  the  moraine,  like  a  mobile  hill  of  sand,  broken  shells, 
and  cinders;  then  the  glacier,  with  its  blue-green  waves, 
tipped  with  white,  undulating  as  a  silent  and  frozen  sea. 
The  wind  also  had  all  the  coolness  and  freshness  of  the  sea- 
b  eeze. 

"  No,  thanks;  I  have  my  crampotis,^^  said  Tartarin,  as 
the  guide  offered  him  woollen  foot-protectors  to  wear  over 
his  boots:  "Kennedy's  pattern  crampons  —  first-rate  — 
very  convenient."  He  shouted  all  this  at  the  top  of  his 
voice  as  if  the  guide  were  deaf,  so  as  to  make  him  understand 
better,  for  Christian  Inebnit  knew  no  more  French  than  his 
comrade  Kaufmann.  Then  Tartarin  seated  himself  upon 
the  moraine  and  fixed  upon  his  boots  with  irons  the  species 
of  large  pointed  iron  socks  called  crampons. 

lie  had  experimented  a  hundred  times  with  these 
"  Kennedy  crampons,"  and  had  tried  them  in  the  garden 
where  the  baobab  grew;  nevertheless  the  result  was  unex- 
pected. Beneath  the  hero's  weight  the  spikes  buried  them- 
selves in  the  ice  to  such  a  depth  that  all  attempts  to  extricate 
them  were  vain !  Behold  Tartarin  nailed  to  the  ice,  springing, 
swearing,  making  semaphores  of  his  arms  and  alpenstock ; 
and  finally  reduced  to  recall  his  guides,  who  had  gone  on 
ahead  in  the  full  belief  that  they  had  to  do  with  an  experi- 
enced climber! 

Finding  it  impossible  to  pull  him  up,  they  unfastened  the 
crampons  from  him,  and  left  them  in  the  ice,  replacing  them 
by  a  pair  of  worsted  boot-coverings.  The  President  then 
continued  his  way,  not  without  toil  and  fatigue.  Unaccus- 
tomed to  use  his  baton,  he  knocked  it  against  his  legs;  the 
iron  slid  away  from  him,  dragging  him  with  it,  when  he 
leaned  on  it  too  heavily;  then  he  tried  the  ice-axe,  which 
proved  even  more  difficult  to  manage;  the  swellings  of  the 
glacier  increased,  casting  up  its  motionless  waves  into  the 
appearance  of  a  furious  ocean  suddenly  petrified. 

Apparently  motionless  only — for  the  loud  crackings,  the 
interior  rumblings,  the  enormous  blocks  of  ice  slowly  dis- 
placed like  the  revolving  scenes  at  a  theatre,  displayed  the 
action,  the  treacherousness,  of  this  immense  glacial  mass; 


184  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

and  before  the  climber's  eyes,  within  reach  of  his  axe, 
crevasses  opened — bottomless  pits  into  which  the  pieces  of 
ice  rolled  to  infinity.  The  hero  fell  into  many  of  these  traps 
- — once  up  to  his  waist  into  one  of  the  green  gulfs,  wherein  his 
broad  shoulders  alone  prevented  him  from  being  buried. 

Seeing  him  so  unskilful,  and  at  the  same  time  so  calm  and 
collected — laughing,  singing,  gesticulating,  just  as  he  had 
been  doing  at  breakfast — the  guides  began  to  think  that 
the  Swiss  champagne  had  got  into  his  head.  Could  they 
think  anything  else  of  a  President  of  an  Alpine  Club,  of  a 
mountaineer  so  renowned,  of  whom  his  companions  never 
spoke  without  "Ah!"  and  expressive  gestures?  Having, 
therefore,  seized  him  under  his  arms  after  the  respectful 
fashion  of  policemen  putting  a  well-born  but  elevated  young 
gentleman  into  a  cab,  the  guides,  by  the  aid  of  monosyllables 
and  gestures,  endeavoured  to  arouse  his  reason  to  the 
dangers  of  the  route;  the  threatening  appearance  of  the 
crevasses,  the  cold,  and  the  avalanches.  With  the  points  of 
their  ice-axes  they  indicated  the  enormous  accumulations  of 
ice,  the  sloping  wall  of  neve  in  front,  rising  to  th'^  zenith  in  a 
blinding  glare. 

But  the  worthy  Tartarin  laughed  at  all  this.'  "  Ah  I  vat, 
les  crevasses  !  Ah !  get  out  with  your  avalanches !  "  and  he 
choked  with  laughter,  winked  at  the  guides,  and  nudged 
them  playfully  in  the  ribs,  to  make  them  understand  that  he 
was  in  the  secret  as  well  as  they ! 

The  men  ended  by  joining  in  the  fun,  carried  away  by 
Tarascon  melody;  and  when  they  rested  a  moment  upon  a 
block  of  ice  to  permit  "  monsieur "  to  take  breath,  they 
"  jodelled  "  in  Swiss  fashion,  but  not  loudly,  for  fear  of 
avalanches,  nor  for  long,  because  time  was  passing  apace. 
Evening  was  evidently  coming  on,  the  cold  was  becoming 
more  intense,  and  the  singular  discoloration  of  the  snows  and 
the  ice,  heaped  up  and  overhanging  in  masses,  which,  even 
under  a  cloudy  sky,  glitter  and  sparkle,  but  when  daylight 
is  dying  out,  gone  up  towards  the  tapering  peaks,  take  the 
livid,  spectral  tints  of  the  lunar  world.  Pallor,  congelation, 
silence — all  is  dead.  And  the  good  Tartarin,  so  warm,  so 
lively,  began  at  length  to  lose  his  verve,  when  at  the  distant 
cry  of  a  bird,  the  call  of  the  "  snow  partridge  "  (ptarmigan) 
resounding  amid  the  desolation,  before  his  eyes  there  passed 


The  Alpine  Club  Hut  185 

a  vision  of  a  burnt-up  country,  browned  under  a  setting  sun, 
sportsmen  of  Tarascon,  wiping  their  foreheads,  seated  upon 
their  empty  game-bags,  beneath  the  shade  of  an  oHve-tree ! 
This  reminiscence  comforted  him. 

At  the  same  time  Kaufmann  was  pointing  out  to  him 
something  above  them  which  looked  like  a  faggot  on  the 
snow.  This  was  the  hut.  It  seemed  as  if  a  few  paces  would 
suffice  to  reach  it,  but  it  was  a  good  half-hour  ere  they  got 
there.  One  of  the  guides  went  on  in  front  to  light  the  fire. 
It  was  dark  by  this  time;  the  east  wind  came  piercingly  off 
the  death-like  ground,  and  Tartarin,  no  longer  troubling 
himself  about  anything,  firmly  sustained  by  the  arm  of  the 
guide,  jumped  and  bounded  about  until  there  was  not  a  dry 
thread  on  him,  notwithstanding  the  lowness  of  the  tempera- 
ture. Suddenly,  a  savoury  odour  of  onion-soup  assailed  their 
no  trils. 

They  had  reached  the  hut. 

Nothing  can  be  more  simple  than  these  stopping-places 
established  on  the  mountains  by  the  forethought  of  the  Swiss 
Alpine  Cub;  a  single  room,  in  which  a  sloping  plank,  serving 
as  bed-place,  occupies  nearly  all  the  space,  leaving  very  little 
for  the  stove  and  the  long  table,  which  is  nailed  to  the  floor, 
as  well  as  the  benches  which  surround  it.  The  supper  was 
already  laid  when  the  men  arrived;  three  bowls,  tin  spoons, 
the  "  Etna  "  for  the  coffee,  two  tins  of  Chicago  preserved 
meats  opened.  Tartarin  found  the  dinner  excellent,  although 
the  onion-soup  was  rather  smoked,  and  the  famous  patent 
lamp,  which  ought  to  have  produced  a  quart  of  coffee  in  three 
minutes,  failed  to  work. 

For  dessert  they  sang:  it  was  the  only  way  to  converse  with 
the  guides.  He  sang  his  country's  songs:  la  Tarasque,  les 
Filles  d' Avignon.  The  guides  responded  with  local  songs  in 
their  German  patois  :  "  Mi  Voter  isch  en  Appenzeller  ;  aou, 
aou  1 "  Fine  fellows  these — hard  as  rock,  with  soft  flowing 
beards  like  moss,  clear  eyes,  accustomed  to  move  in  space,  as 
sailors'  are ;  and  this  sensation  of  the  sea  and  space,  which  he 
had  lately  experienced  while  ascending  the  Guggi,  Tartarin 
again  experienced  here  in  the  company  of  these  glacier-pilots 
in  that  narrow  cabin,  low  and  smoky,  a  veritable  "  'tween- 
decks,"  in  the  dripping  of  the  snow  which  the  heat  had 
melted  on  the  roof,  and  the  wild  gusts  of  wind,  like  masses 


I  86  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

of  falling  water,  shaking  everything,  making  the  planks 
creak  and  the  lamp  flicker:  then  suddenly  stopping  in  a 
silence  as  if  all  the  world  were  dead. 

Dinner  was  finished,  when  heavy  steps  were  heard  ap- 
proaching, and  voices  were  distinguished.  A  violent  knock- 
ing at  the  door!  Tartarin,  somewhat  alarmed,  gazed  at 
the  guides.  A  nocturnal  attack  at  such  an  elevation  as  this? 
The  blows  redoubled  in  intensity.  "  Who  is  there?  "  cried 
the  hero,  seizing  his  ice-axe:  but  the  cabin  was  already 
invaded  by  two  tall  Americans  masked  in  white  linen,  their 
clothing  saturated  with  perspiration  and  snow-water,  and 
behind  them  guides  and  porters — quite  a  caravan  coming 
down  from  the  summit  of  the  Jungfrau. 

"  Welcome,  my  lords,"  cried  Tartarin,  with  a  hospitable 
and  patronising  wave  of  his  hand,  but  "  milords  "  had  no 
compunction  as  to  making  themselves  quite  at  home.  In 
a  few  seconds  the  table  was  relaid,  the  bowls  and  spoons 
passed  through  some  hot  water  to  serve  for  the  new-comers, 
according  to  the  rules  existing  in  all  Alpine  huts,  the  boots  of 
"  milords  "  were  drying  at  the  stove,  while  they,  with  their 
feet  wrapped  in  straw,  were  disposing  of  a  new  supply  of 
onion-soup. 

These  Americans  were  father  and  son — two  ruddy  giants, 
with  the  heads  of  pioneers,  hard  and  practical.  The  older 
of  the  two  seemed  to  have  white  eyes ;  and  after  a  while  the 
manner  in  which  he  tapped  and  felt  around  him,  and  the 
care  which  his  son  took  of  him,  assured  Tartarin  that  he  was 
the  famous  blind  mountaineer  of  whom  he  had  heard  at  the 
Belle  Vue  Hotel,  a  fact  he  could  scarcely  credit,  a  famous 
climber  in  his  youth,  and  who,  notwithstanding  his  sixty 
years,  had  recommenced  his  ascents  again  with  his  son. 
He  had  in  this  manner  already  made  the  ascent  of  the 
Wetterhorn  and  the  Jungfrau,  and  reckoned  upon  attack- 
ing the  Cervin  and  Mont  Blanc,  declaring  that  the  mountain 
air  gave  him  intense  enjoyment,  and  recalled  all  his  former 
vigour. 

"But,"  said  Tartarin  to  one  of  the  porters  —  for  the 
Yankees  were  not  communicative,  and  only  replied  "  Yes  "' 
or  "  No  "  to  all  advances — "  but,  if  he  cannot  see,  how  can 
he  manage  to  cross  dangerous  places  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  has  the  foot  of  a  true  mountaineer,  and  his  son 


Continuation  of  the  Ascent         187 

looks  after  him,  places  his  feet  in  the  proper  positions,  etc. 
The  fact  is,  he  never  has  an  accident." 

"  More  especially  as  accidents  are  never  very  deplorable, 
que  1  "  After  a  knowing  smile  to  the  astonished  porter,  the 
Tarasconnais,  more  and  more  persuaded  that  all  this  was 
blague,  stretched  himself  on  the  plank,  rolled  himself  in  his 
rug,  his  comforter  up  to  his  eyes,  and  fell  asleep,  notwith- 
standing the  light,  the  chatter,  the  smoke  of  pipes,  and  the 
smell  of  the  onion-soup. 

"  Mossie  I  Mossie  I  "  (Monsieur.) 

One  of  the  guides  was  shaking  him  by  the  shoulder,  while 
the  other  was  pouring  out  some  boiling  coffee  into  the  bowls. 

There  were  a  few  oaths  and  some  grumbling  from  the 
sleepers,  as  Tartarin  pushed  past  them  in  his  way  to  the 
table  and  to  the  door.  All  of  a  sudden,  he  found  himself  in 
the  open  air,  shivering  with  cold,  and  puzzled  by  the  moon- 
light upon  the  white  plains,  the  frozen  cascades,  which  the 
shadows  of  the  peaks,  aiguilles,  and  seracs,  cut  with  intense 
blackness.  There  was  not  the  bewildering  scintillation  of 
the  afternoon,  nor  the  livid  grey  tinge  of  the  evening,  but  a 
town  cut  by  dark  alleys,  mysterious  passages,  dubious  angles 
between  the  marble  monuments  and  crumbled  ruins — a  dead 
town  with  its  wide  deserted  squares. 

Two  o'clock !  With  good  walking  they  ought  to  reach  the 
summit  by  mid-day.  "  Zow,"  said  the  P.  C.  A.  quite  gaily, 
and  pressed  forward  to  the  assault.  But  the  guides  stopped 
him:   it  was  necessary  to  rope  themselves. 

"Ah!  go  along  with  your  tying  up!  Very  well,  then; 
if  it  amuses  you,  be  it  so !  " 

Christian  Inebnit  took  the  lead,  leaving  six  feet  of  rope 
between  him  and  Tartarin,  and  the  same  length  between 
Tartarin  and  the  other  guide,  who  was  carrying  the  pro- 
visions and  the  banner.  The  Tarasconnais  got  on  better 
than  the  day  before,  and  really  he  did  not  seem  to  appreciate 
the  difficulties  of  the  path — if  the  way  along  that  terrible 
arete  of  ice  can  be  called  a  path — over  which  they  were  ad- 
vancing with  the  greatest  caution.  It  was  a  few  inches  wide, 
and  so  slippery  that  Christian  had  to  cut  steps  in  it. 

The  arete  glittered  between  profound  abysses.  But  do 
you  think  Tartarin  was  afraid?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  Scarcely 
did  he  experience  the  little  tremor  of  the  newly-made  Free- 


I  88  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

mason  who  has  to  submit  to  the  ordeal !  He  placed  his  feet 
exactly  in  the  holes  cut  by  the  guide,  doing  everything  as  he 
saw  him  do  it,  as  coolly  as  if  he  were  in  the  baobab  garden, 
walking  on  the  edge  of  the  fountain,  to  the  great  terror  of  the 
gold-fish.  At  one  time,  the  crest  became  so  narrow  that  they 
were  compelled  to  proceed  on  all-fours,  and  while  they  were 
advancing  slowly  a  tremendous  detonation  was  heard  on 
the  right  beneath  them.  "An  avalanche!"  said  Inebnit, 
stopping  quite  still  so  long  as  the  uproar  lasted,  while  the 
reverberations,  grandly  repeated,  terminated  by  a  lengthened 
thunder-roll,  which  slowly  died  away  in  echoes.  After  that 
the  former  terrible  silence  succeeded,  covering  all  things  like 
a  winding-sheet. 

The  arete  passed,  they  reached  the  neve,  which  sloped 
easily,  but  was  terribly  long.  They  had  climbed  for  more 
than  an  hour,  when  a  thin  streak  of  rosy  hue  began  to  touch 
the  peaks  high — very  high — over  their  heads.  Day  was 
announcing  its  arrival.  As  a  good  Southerner,  cherishing 
an  enmity  to  darkness,  Tartarin  trolled  out  his  cheerful 
song,— 

Grand  souleu  de  la  Proven^o 
Gai  compaire  dou  misttau\ 

A  tug  at  the  cord  both  before  and  behind  stopped  him 
short  in  the  middle  of  his  verse:  "Hush!  hush!"  cried 
Inebnit,  indicating  with  the  handle  of  his  ice-axe  the 
menacing  line  of  immense  and  clustered  seracs  which  the 
least  shock  would  send  down  upon  the  travellers.  But  the 
Tarasconnais  knew  what  he  was  about — they  were  not  going 
to  humbug  him;   so  he  recommenced  in  a  resonant  voice, — 

Tu  qu'escoulis  la  Duranpo 
Comma  un  flot  de  vin  de  Crau.' 

The  guides,  perceiving  that  they  could  not  keep  the  head- 
strong singer  within  due  bounds,  made  a  wide  detour  to  avoid 
the  seracs,  and  soon  were  brought  to  a  standstill  by  an  enor- 
mous crevasse,  which  was  lighted  in  its  green  depths  by  the 
first  rays  of  daylight.  A  snow  bridge  crossed  it,  but  so  thin 
and  fragile,  that  at  the  very  first  step  it  disappeared  in  a 
whirlwind  of  fine  snow,  dragging  with  it  the  head  guide  and 

'  Grand  soleil  de  la  Provence, — Gai  compere  du  mistral. 
Toi  qui  siffles  la  Durance — Comme  un  coup  de  vin  de  Crau. 


Tartarin  in  the  Crevasse  189 

Tartarin,  who  hung  by  the  cord,  which  Rudolf  Kaufmann, 
the  rear  guide,  gripped  with  all  his  force,  his  axe  firmly  fixed 
in  the  snow  to  sustain  the  tension.  But  though  he  could 
hold  up  the  men,  he  could  not  haul  them  out,  and  he  stood 
crouching  down,  with  clenched  teeth  and  straining  muscles, 
too  far  from  the  crevasse  to  perceive  what  was  passing 
within  it. 

Astounded  by  the  fall,  and  half  blinded  by  the  snow, 
Tartarin  for  a  minute  threw  his  legs  and  arms  about  like  a 
puppet:  but  then,  righting  himself  by  means  of  the  rope,  he 
hung  over  the  chasm,  his  nose  touching  the  icy  wall,  which 
thawed  beneath  his  breathing,  in  the  posture  of  a  plumber 
mending  a  water-pipe.  He  saw  the  sky  paling  above  him,  the 
last  stars  were  disappearing;  beneath  him  a  chasm  of  intense 
darkness,  whence  ascended  a  cold  air. 

Nevertheless,  his  first  astonishment  over,  he  regained  his 
coolness  and  good  humour, — 

"Ehl  up  there!  Father  Kaufmann,  don't  let  us  get 
mouldy  here,  que  1  There  is  a  draught,  and  this  cursed  cord 
is  bruising  our  ribs." 

Kaufmann  was  not  able  to  reply.  If  he  unlocked  his  teeth 
he  would  lose  some  of  his  strength.  But  Inebnit  hailed 
from  below, — 

"  Mossie  !  Mossie  !  ice-axe!" — for  he  had  lost  his  own 
in  the  crevasse ;  and  the  heavy  instrument  passed  from 
Tartarin's  hands  into  those  of  the  guide— a  difficult  operation 
because  of  the  length  of  cord  which  separated  them.  The 
guide  wanted  it  to  cut  steps  in  the  ice  in  front  of  him,  or  to 
cling  by  it  foot  and  hand. 

The  strain  upon  the  rope  being  thus  lessened  by  one  half 
Rudolf  Kaufmann,  with  carefully  calculated  force  and 
infinite  precautions,  commenced  to  drag  up  the  President, 
whose  cap  at  length  appeared  over  the  edge  of  the  crevasse. 
Inebnit  came  up  in  his  turn,  and  the  two  mountaineers  met 
with  effusion,  but  with  the  few  words  which  are  exchanged 
after  great  dangers  by  people  of  a  slow  habit  of  speaking. 
They  were  much  moved,  and  trembling  with  their  exertions. 
Tartarin  passed  them  his  flask  to  restore  them.  He  seemed 
quite  composed  and  calm,  and  while  he  was  beating  the  snow 
from  his  dress  rhythmically,  he  kept  humming  a  tune,  under 
the  very  noses  of  the  astonished  guides. 


190  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

"  Brav  !  hrav  !  Franzose,"  said  Kaufmann,  patting  him  on 
the  shoulder,  and  Tartarin,  with  his  jolly  laugh,  replied, — 

"  Farceur,  I  knew  quite  well  there  was  no  danger!  " 

Within  the  memory  of  the  guide,  never  had  there  been 
such  an  Alpinist  as  this! 

They  continued  their  way,  climbing  a  gigantic  wall  of  ice 
eighteen  hundred  or  two  thousand  feet  high,  in  which  they 
cut  steps,  which  occupied  much  time. 

The  man  of  Tarascon  began  to  feel  his  strength  failing  him 
under  the  blazing  sun,  which  reflected  all  the  whiteness  of 
the  landscape,  all  the  more  trying  for  his  eyes  as  he  had 
dropped  his  spectacles  into  the  crevasse.  Soon  afterwards  a 
terrible  faintness  seized  upon  him,  that  "  mal  de  montagnes  " 
which  has  the  same  effect  as  sea-sickness.  Utterly  done  up, 
and  light-headed,  with  dragging  limbs,  he  stumbled  about,  so 
that  the  guides  had  to  haul  him  along,  one  on  each  side,  as 
they  had  done  the  day  before,  sustaining  him,  even  drawing 
him  up  the  ice-wall.  Scarcely  three  hundred  feet  intervened 
between  them  and  the  top  of  the  Jungfrau;  but  although 
the  snow  was  firm  and  the  way  easy,  this  last  stage  occupied 
an  "  interminable  "  time,  while  the  fatigue  and  the  sensation 
of  suffocation  increased  with  Tartarin  continually. 

Suddenly,  the  guides  let  him  go,  and  waving  their  hats 
began  to  "  jodel  "  with  delight.  They  had  reached  the 
summit.  This  point  in  immaculate  space,  this  white  crest 
somewhat  rounded,  was  the  end,  and  for  poor  Tartarin  the 
end  of  the  torpor  in  which  he  had  been  walking,  as  in  his 
sleep,  for  the  last  hour. 

"  Scheideck!  Scheideck!  "  exclaimed  the  guides,  pointing 
out  to  him  far  below  on  a  verdant  plateau,  standing  out  from 
the  mists  of  the  valley,  the  Hotel  Belle  Vue,  looking  a  very 
toy-house. 

From  there  they  had  a  magnificent  panorama  spread 
before  them,  a  snow  slope  tinged  with  an  orange  glow  by  the 
sun,  or  a  cold  deep  blue;  a  mass  of  ice  fantastically  sculptured 
into  towers,  steeples,  needles,  aretes ;  gigantic  mounds,  like 
graves  of  the  mastodon  and  the  megatherium.  All  the 
colours  of  the  rainbow  played  upon  them,  uniting  again 
in  the  beds  of  the  great  glaciers,  with  their  motionless  ice- 
falls,  crossed  by  tiny  streams  which  the  sun  was  warming  into 
life  again.     But  at  that  great  elevation  the  reflections  were 


After  the  Ascent  191 

toned  down,  a  light  was  floating  in  the  air,  a  cold  ecliptic 
light,  which  made  Tartarin  shiver  as  much  as  the  sensation 
of  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  white  desert  and  its  mys- 
terious recesses. 

A  little  smoke  was  perceived,  and  some  detonations  were 
heard  from  the  hotel.  They  had  seen  the  tourists,  and  were 
firing  cannon  in  their  honour,  and  the  conviction  that  they 
saw  him,  that  his  Alpinists  were  there,  the  young  ladies,  the 
illustrious  Rices  and  Prunes,  with  their  opera-glasses,  recalled 
Tartarin  to  the  importance  of  his  mission.  He  snatched  the 
Tarascon  banner  from  the  hands  of  the  guide,  and  waved  it 
two  or  three  times;  then,  fixing  his  ice-axe  in  the  snow,  he 
seated  himself,  upon  the  iron  of  the  pick,  flag  in  hand,  superb, 
facing  the  public.  And  without  his  perceiving  it — by  one 
of  those  spectral  images  frequent  at  the  tops  of  mountains, 
the  result  of  sun,  and  of  mist  which  was  rising  behind  him — 
a  gigantic  Tartarin  was  outlined  on  the  sky,  enlarged  and 
shortened,  the  beard  bristling  out  of  the  comforter,  like  one 
of  the  Scandinavian  deities,  which  tradition  presents  to  us  as 
enthroned  in  the  midst  of  the  clouds. 


XI 

EN  ROUTE  FOR  TARASCON  ! — THE  LAKE  OF  GENEVA — TARTARIN 
SUGGESTS  A  VISIT  TO  BONNIVARD's  CELL — A  SHORT 
DIALOGUE  AMID  THE  ROSES — ALL  THE  BAND  UNDER  LOCK 
AND  KEY — THE  UNFORTUNATE  BONNIVARD — A  CERTAIN 
ROPE  MADE  IN  AVIGNON  COMES  TO  LIGHT 

After  the  ascent,  Tartarin's  nose  peeled  and  became 
pimpled,  his  cheeks  cracked.  He  was  obliged  to  remain  in 
his  room  for  five  days  at  the  Belle  Vue.  Five  days  of  com- 
presses, pomades  of  which  he  whiled  away  the  cloying 
mawkishness  and  boredom  by  making  little  whist  parties 
with  the  delegates,  or  dictating  to  them  a  long  detailed 
account,  most  circumstantial  in  incidents,  of  his  expedition, 
to  be  read  in  full  meeting  at  the  club,  and  published  in  the 
Forum.     Then,  when  his  general  fatigue  had  abated,  and 


192  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 


there  remained  upon  the  noble  features  of  the  P.  C.  A,  a  few 
blisters,  scars,  and  cracks,  with  a  beautiful  Etruscan  vase 
tint,  the  delegation  and  its  President  took  the  route  for 
Tarascon  via  Geneva. 

Let  us  pass  over  the  incidents  of  the  journey:  the  terror 
which  the  Southern  party  aroused  in  the  narrow  railway- 
carriages,  the  steamers,  the  tables  d'hote,  by  their  songs,  cries, 
and  their  exuberant  affection  for  each  other;  their  banner, 
and  their  alpenstocks,  for  since  the  ascent  of  the  P.  C.  A. 
they  had  all  furnished  themselves  with  stocks,  on  which  the 
records  of  celebrated  ascents  were  burnt  in  black  letters. 

Montreux ! 

Here  the  delegates,  at  the  suggestion  of  their  leader,  decided 
to  halt  for  two  or  three  days,  to  see  the  celebrated  shores  of 
the  Lake  Leman — particularly  Chillon,  and  the  legendary 
prison  in  which  languished  the  great  patriot  Bonnivard,  as 
related  by  Byron  and  Delacroix. 

As  for  Tartarin,  he  cared  very  little  for  Bonnivard;  his 
adventure  with  William  Tell  had  enlightened  him  concern- 
ing Swiss  legends;  but  while  passing  through  Interlachen 
he  had  learnt  that  Sonia  was  about  to  leave  for  Montreux 
with  her  brother,  whose  condition  had  become  more  serious, 
and  this  invention  of  a  pilgrimage  served  him  as  a  pretext  to 
see  the  young  lady  once  more,  and — who  knows? — to  per- 
suade her  to  follow  him  to  Tarascon. 

It  must  be  understood  that  his  followers  all  believed  in  the 
good  faith  of  their  leader  when  he  said  he  came  to  render 
homage  to  the  celebrated  citizen  of  Geneva,  whose  story 
the  P.  C.  A.  had  related;  even  now,  with  their  taste  for 
theatrical  display,  they  would  have  marched  in  line  to 
Chillon,  with  the  banner  displayed,  crying  "  Vive  Bonni- 
vard !  "  But  the  President  was  obliged  to  restrain  them. 
"  Let  us  first  breakfast,"  he  said,  "  and  then  we  shall  see." 

They  filled  the  omnibus  of  a  pension  Miiller,  situated,  like 
many  others,  near  the  landing-stage  by  the  lake. 

"  Ve  1  le  gendarme  1  How  he  stares  at  us,"  said  Pascalon, 
as  last  of  all  he  got  into  the  omnibus  with  the  banner,  which 
was  very  much  in  the  way;  and  Bravida,  who  was  nervous, 
said:  "  That's  true;  what  can  that  gendarme  want  with  us 
that  he  examines  us  so  closely?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  recognises  me,  pardi  1  "  said  the  good  Tar- 


Market-Day  in  Montreux  193 

tarin,  and  he  smiled  a  far-off  smile  at  the  Vaudois  policeman, 
whose  long  blue  capote  was  persistently  turned  towards  the 
omnibus,  which  was  proceeding  along  the  poplar-lined  road 
by  the  lake  side. 

That  was  market-day  in  Montreux.  Rows  of  little  shops 
in  the  open  air  were  ranged  along  the  lake,  filled  with  fruit, 
vegetables,  cheap  lace,  and  with  the  silver  jewellery,  chains, 
plaques,  brooches,  etc.,  which  embellish  the  Swiss  female 
costume  like  "  worked  "  snow  or  ice-pearls.  Amid  these 
shops  flowed  the  stream  of  people  from  the  little  harbour, 
which  sheltered  a  flotilla  of  boats  of  brilliant  colours,  and 
where  the  disembarkation  of  bags  and  barrels  from  the 
vessels  with  antennae-like  sails,  the  shrill  whistling,  the  bells 
of  the  steamers,  the  bustle  of  the  cafes,  the  beer-shops,  the 
florists,  and  the  second-hand  dealers  which  line  the  quay, 
w^ere  continually  mingling.  With  a  little  sun,  one  might 
have  fancied  one's  self  in  some  Mediterranean  port,  between 
Mentone  and  Bordighera.  But  the  sun  was  wanting,  and 
the  natives  of  Tarascon  looked  at  this  pretty  country  through 
a  veil  of  water  which  rose  from  the  blue  lake,  climbed  up 
the  stony  streets,  united  above  the  houses  with  other  clouds, 
massed  amid  the  dark  verdure  of  the  mountains,  charged 
with  rain,  and  ready  to  burst. 

"  Coquin  de  sort !  I  am  not  a  lake-man,"  said  Spiridion 
Excourbanies,  rubbing  the  glass  of  the  omnibus  window 
to  see  the  views  of  the  glaciers. 

"  No  more  am  I,"  sighed  Pascalon;  "  this  fog,  this  dead 
water,  makes  one  inclined  to  weep." 

Bravida  complained  also :  he  was  afraid  of  his  sciatica. 

Tartarin  reprimanded  them  severely.  Was  it,  then, 
nothing  that  they  would  be  able  to  say,  when  they  returned, 
that  they  had  seen  the  prison  of  Bonnivard,  written  their 
names  on  the  historic  walls  beside  the  signatures  of  Rousseau, 
Byron,  Victor  Hugo,  George  Sand,  Eugene  Sue  ?  Suddenly, 
in  the  middle  of  this  tirade,  the  President  interrupted 
himself — changed  colour.  He  had  seen  a  little  toque, 
resting  on  blonde  hair,  passing  by.  Without  even  stopping 
the  omnibus,  just  then  slackening  for  the  ascent,  he  leaped 
out,  saying,  "  Go  on  to  the  hotel,"  to  the  stupefied  Alpinists. 

"  Sonia!  Sonia!  " 

He  was  afraid  he  would  not  be  able  to  overtake  her,  so 


194  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

hurried  was  she,  her  slim  shadow  flitting  along  the  wall 
of  the  road.  She  turned  and  waited  for  him:  "Ah!  'tis 
you !  "  Immediately  their  hands  clasped  she  resumed  her 
walk.  He  placed  himself  beside  her,  out  of  breath,  excusing 
himself  for  having  quitted  her  in  such  sudden  fashion — the 
arrival  of  his  friends — the  necessity  for  the  ascent,  of  which 
his  face  still  bore  the  traces.  She  listened  without  saying 
a  word,  hurrying  on,  her  eyes  fixed  and  wide  open.  Judging 
by  her  profile,  she  seemed  to  him  pale,  her  features  deprived 
of  their  infantine  candour,  with  something  hard,  resolute, 
which  until  then  had  not  existed,  but  in  her  voice — her 
imperious  will;  but  still  her  juvenile  gracefulness,  her  waving, 
golden  hair ! 

"And  Boris — how  is  he.'*"  asked  Tartarin,  a  little  put 
out  by  her  silence,  by  the  coldness  which  was  creeping  ever 
him. 

"Boris.?"  She  trembled.  "Ah!  yes,  it  is  true;  you 
didn't  know.     Well,  then,  come  with  me ;  come." 

They  proceeded  along  a  little  path,  bordered  with  vines 
hanging  almost  over  the  lake,  and  villas,  gardens — sanded, 
elegant,  the  terraces  planted  with  the  virgin  vine,  roses, 
petunias,  and  myrtle.  From  time  to  time  they  passed 
some  strange  face,  with  troubled  features  and  mournful 
looks,  their  steps  slow  and  melancholy,  such  as  one  meets 
with  at  Mentone  or  Monaco:  only  there  the  light  devours 
all,  absorbs  everything;  while  beneath  the  cloudy  sky 
suffering  is  more  apparent,  while  the  flowers  appear  fresher. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Sonia,  pushing  open  a  gate  beneath  a 
pediment  of  white  masonry,  inscribed  with  Russian  characters 
in  golden  letters. 

Tartarin  did  not  at  first  understand  where  he  was.  A 
little  garden  with  carefully  tended  walks,  pebbly,  full  of 
climbing  roses  amid  the  green  bushes,  great  clusters  of 
yellow  and  white  blossoms  filled  the  place  with  their  aroma 
and  bloom.  Amongst  these  garlands,  this  marvellous  dis- 
play of  blossom,  were  some  stones  standing  up  or  lying  down, 
with  dates  and  names  upon  them, — this  one,  quite  new, — 

"  Boris  de  Wassilief,  aged  22  years.^^ 

He  had  been  laid  there  for  some  days,  having  died  almost 
immediately  after  he  had  reached  Montreux;    and,  in  this 


Amid  the  Roses  195 

cemetery  of  strangers,  he  found  a  trace  of  his  native 
land  amongst  the  Russians,  Poles,  Swedes,  buried  beneath 
the  flowers — consumptive  patients  who  are  sent  to  this 
northern  Nice,  because  the  sunny  South  is  too  hot,  and  the 
transition  too  sudden  for  them. 

The  pair  remained  motionless  and  silent  for  a  moment 
before  the  new  white  headstone  on  the  dark  ground  of  the 
freshly-turned  earth:  the  young  girl,  with  bowed  head, 
breathing  the  odour  of  the  abundant  roses,  and  thus  resting 
her  swollen  eyes. 

"  Poor  httle  thing!  "  said  Tartarin,  much  affected;  and, 
taking  in  his  strong  rough  hands  the  tips  of  Sonia's  fingers, 
he  continued:  "And  you?  What  will  become  of  you, 
now?  " 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  face  with  dry  and  brilliant 
eyes,  in  which  no  tear  trembled, — 

"  I?   I  leave  here  in  an  hour!  " 

"  You  are  going  away?  " 

"  Bolibine  is  already  in  St.  Petersburg.  Maniloflf  is 
waiting  for  me  to  pass  the  frontier.  I  am  about  to  enter 
the  furnace.  People  will  hear  us  talked  about."  Then, 
in  an  undertone,  she  added,  with  a  half  smile,  fixing  her 
blue  eyes  full  on  the  face  of  Tartarin,  who  blanched  and 
avoided  her  gaze:   "  Who  loves  me  will  follow  me!  " 

Ah!  va'i,  follow  her!  This  enthusiast  made  him  afraid; 
besides,  this  funeral  scene  had  cooled  his  ardour.  He 
struggled,  nevertheless,  not  to  run  away  like  a  contemp- 
tible wretch.  So,  with  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  a  gesture 
worthy  of  Abenceragus,  the  hero  began:  "You  know  me, 
Sonia " 

She  did  not  wish  to  hear  any  more. 

"  Babbler !  "  she  replied,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  And 
then  she  left  him,  upright  and  proud,  passing  between  the 
rose  bushes  without  once  turning  round.  "  Babbler!  "  not 
another  word,  but  the  intonation  was  so  contemptuous 
that  the  good  Tartarin  blushed  under  his  beard,  and  con- 
vinced himself  that  they  were  alone  in  the  garden,  and  that 
no  one  had  heard  them. 

Fortunately,  impressions  did  not  survive  long  with  our 
Tarasconnais.  Five  minutes  later,  he  ascended  the  terraces 
of  Montreux  with  a  light  step,  in  quest  of  the  pension  Miiller 
0423 


196  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

where  the  Alpinists  were  waiting  dejeuner  for  him,  and  he 
felt  a  great  relief  at  the  termination  of  this  dangerous 
liaison.  As  he  proceeded,  he  nodded  vigorously,  and  ex- 
plained eloquently  to  himself  the  reason  which  Sonia  would 
not  listen  to.  Be  1  yes,  it  was  certainly  a  despotism — he 
would  not  deny  that;  but  to  pass  from  the  idea  to  action! 
Boiifre  I  And  then,  what  an  employment  for  him,  to  fire 
upon  despots !  Suppose  every  oppressed  nation  came  to 
him,  as  the  Arabs  did  to  Bombonnel  when  the  panther 
prowled  around  the  douar,  all  his  efforts  would  not  suffice. 
Allons  1 

A  passing  carriage  quickly  cut  short  his  monologue.  He 
had  only  just  time  to  leap  aside:  "  Look  out,  you  animal!  " 
But  his  angry  exclamation  was  at  once  changed  into  an 
exclamation  of  surprise:  "  Ques  aco  1  Boiidiou  I  Impos- 
sible !  "  I  give  you  a  thousand  guesses  to  divine  what 
he  saw  in  the  landau.  The  delegation!  The  delegation 
in  full — Bravida,  Pascalon,  Excourbani^s — crowded  in  at 
one  side,  pale,  exhausted,  dishevelled,  after  a  struggle  with 
two  gendarmes,  muskets  in  hand,  seated  opposite  to  them. 
All  their  profiles,  motionless,  mute,  in  the  narrow  frame  of 
the  doorway,  seemed  like  a  bad  dream;  and  Tartarin  stood 
rooted  to  the  spot  as  firmly  as  he  ever  was  by  the  "  Kennedy  " 
crampons.  He  saw  the  carriage  gallop  off,  behind  it  a  crowd 
of  school-boys,  satchels  on  back,  just  released  from  school, 
when  a  voice  sounded  in  his  ear:  "  Here  is  the  fourth 
man!"  In  a  moment  he  was  seized,  handcuffed,  bound: 
he  was  hustled  into  a  hackney  carriage  with  the  gendarmes 
and  an  officer  armed  with  his  gigantic  latte,  which  he  held 
between  his  knees,  the  handle  touching  the  top  of  the 
cab. 

Tartarin  wanted  to  speak,  to  explain  himself.  There 
was  evidently  some  mistake. 

He  told  them  his  name.  He  appealed  to  his  Consul, 
to  a  dealer  in  Swiss  honey  who  had  known  him  at  Beaucaire. 
Then,  in  face  of  the  persistent  silence  of  his  attendants, 
he  began  to  look  upon  this  arrest  as  a  new  move  of  Bom- 
pard's  and,  addressing  himself  to  the  officer,  he  said,  with 
a  waggish  air:  "  This  is  all  a  joke,  que  I  Ah  I  vai,  farceur  ! 
I  know  very  well  it  is  all  for  fun !  " 

"  If  you  speak  any  more  I  will  gag  you.     Not  a  word!  " 


Under  Lock  and  Key  197 

said  the  officer,  rolling  his  terrible  eyes,  so  that  it  seemed  as 
if  he  was  going  to  impale  the  prisoner  on  his  staff. 

The  other  kept  quiet,  and  did  not  stir  any  more;  he  kept 
looking  out  of  window  at  the  borders  of  the  lake,  the  high 
mountains — of  a  damp  green  hue — the  hotels,  with  their 
varied  roofs,  with  gilded  signs  visible  a  league  away;  and  on 
the  slopes,  as  on  the  Rigi,  was  a  coming  and  going  of  men 
carrying  up  and  down  baskets  and  hods  of  provisions,  etc.; 
as  at  the  Rigi,  also,  a  toy  railway,  squeaking  along,  and 
climbing  up  as  far  as  Glion ;  and,  to  complete  the  resemblance 
to  the  Regina  montium,  a  heavy  beating  rain  was  falling — an 
exchange  of  water  and  fog  between  the  lake  and  the  sky,  the 
sky  and  the  lake,  the  clouds  touching  the  waves. 

The  carriage  rolled  over  a  drawbridge  between  some  little 
shops  where  knick-knacks  were  sold — penknives,  button- 
hooks, and  such  things;  passed  through  a  low  postern,  and 
stopped  in  the  courtyard  of  an  old  castle,  grass-grown, 
and  flanked  by  round  "  pepper-box "  towers,  with  black 
moucharabis  supported  by  beams.  Where  was  he.'*  Tar- 
tarin  understood  it  when  he  heard  the  officer  of  gendarmes 
conversing  with  the  concierge  of  the  castle,  a  fat  man  in  a 
Grecian  cap,  shaking  a  huge  bunch  of  rusty  keys. 

"In  solitary  confinement?  But  I  have  no  room!  The 
others  occupy  all — unless  we  put  him  in  the  Bonnivard 
prison." 

"  Put  him  in  Bonnivard's  chamber,  then — it  is  quite  good 
enough  for  him,"  said  the  captain,  authoritatively.  And 
his  orders  were  carried  out. 

The  Castle  of  Chillon,  about  which  the  President  had 
continually  been  speaking  to  his  friends  the  Alpinists,  and 
in  which,  by  the  irony  of  fate,  he  found  himself  suddenly 
imprisoned  without  knowing  why,  is  one  of  the  historical 
monuments  of  Switzerland.  After  having  served  as  a 
summer  residence  of  the  Counts  of  Savoy,  then  as  a  State 
prison,  a  depot  of  arms  and  stores,  it  is  now  only  an  excuse 
for  an  excursion,  like  the  Rigi-Kulm  or  Tellsplatte.  There 
is,  however,  a  guard  there,  and  a  lock-up  for  drunkards  and 
the  wilder  lads  of  the  district;  but  such  inmates  are  rare, 
as  the  Vaud  is  a  most  peaceful  canton ;  thus  the  lock-up  is 
usually  untenanted,  and  the  keeper  keeps  his  store  of  fuel  in 
it.     So  the  arrival  of  all  these  prisoners  had  put  him  in  a  bad 


198  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

temper,  particularly  when  he  thought  that  people  would  not 
be  able  to  see  the  celebrated  dungeon,  which  was  at  that 
season  of  considerable  profit. 

Furious,  he  led  the  way,  and  Tartarin  followed  him, 
timidly,  and  without  making  any  resistance.  A  few  worn 
steps,  a  damp  corridor  feeling  like  a  cave,  a  high  door  like  a 
wall,  with  enormous  hinges,  and  they  found  themselves  in 
a  vast  subterranean  vault,  with  deeply  trodden  floor,  and 
heavy  Roman  pillars  on  which  hang  the  rings  of  iron  to  which 
the  State  prisoners  were  formerly  chained.  A  semi-daylight 
flickers  in,  and  the  rippling  lake  is  reflected  through  the 
narrow  apertures  which  permit  naught  but  the  sky  to  be  seen, 

"  This  is  your  place,"  said  the  gaoler.  "  Mind  you  don't 
go  to  the  end,  the  oubliettes  are  there." 

Tartarin  recoiled  in  terror. 

"  Les  oubliettes  I   Boudiou  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  What  would  you  have,  mon  gar^on  J  They  have 
ordered  me  to  put  you  in  Bonnivard's  dungeon.  I  have 
put  you  in  Bonnivard's  dungeon!  Now,  if  you  have  means, 
I  can  supply  you  with  some  luxuries,  such  as  a  mattress  and 
coverlet  for  the  night." 

"  Let  me  have  something  to  eat  first,"  said  Tartarin,  who 
very  fortunately  had  not  left  his  purse  behind  him. 

The  concierge  came  back  with  some  fresh  bread,  some  beer, 
and  a  saveloy,  which  were  all  devoured  eagerly  by  the 
prisoner  of  Chillon,  who  had  not  broken  his  fast  since  the 
day  before,  and  was  worn  out  by  fatigue  and  emotion. 
While  he  was  eating  it  on  his  stone  bench  in  the  gleam  of 
the  embrasure,  the  gaoler  kept  examining  him  with  a  good- 
natured  air. 

"  Ma  foi  !  "  he  said,  "  I  don't  know  what  you  have  done, 
nor  why  they  treat  you  so  severely. 

"  Eh !  coquin  de  sort,  no  more  do  I !  I  know  nothing 
whatever  about  it,"  replied  Tartarin,  with  his  mouth  full. 

"  At  any  rate,  one  thing  is  certain — you  have  not  the 
appearance  of  a  criminal,  and  I  am  sure  you  would  never 
prevent  a  poor  father  of  a  family  from  gaining  his  living? 
Eh?  Well,  then,  I  have  upstairs  all  the  people  who  have 
come  to  see  Bonnivard's  dungeon.  If  you  will  promise  me 
to  remain  quiet,  and  not  attempt  to  escape " 

The  worthy  Tartarin  promised  at  once,  and  five  minutes 


The  Unfortunate  Bonnivard         199 

afterwards  he  saw  his  dungeon  invaded  by  his  old  acquaint- 
ances of  the  Rigi-Kulm  and  the  Tellsplatte :  the  ass  Schwan- 
thaler^  the  most  inept  Astier-Rehu,  the  member  of  the 
Jockey  Club  with  his  niece^  all  the  Cook's  tourists !  Ashamed, 
and  fearful  of  being  recognised,  the  unhappy  man  hid  behind 
the  pillars,  retiring  and  stealing  away  as  they  approached 
him,  the  tourists  preceding  the  gaoler,  who  uttered  his  clap- 
trap in  a  melancholy  tone:  "  This  is  where  the  unfortunate 
Bonnivard  was  imprisoned." 

They  advanced  slowly,  retarded  by  the  disputes  of  the  two 
savants,  who  were  always  quarrelling,  ready  to  fly  at  each 
other,  one  waving  his  camp-stool,  the  other  his  sac  de  voyage, 
in  fantastic  attitudes,  which  the  half-light  magnified  along 
the  vaulted  dungeon  roof. 

By  the  mere  exigency  of  retreat,  Tartarin  found  himself 
at  last  near  the  opening  of  the  oubliettes — a  black  pit,  open 
level  with  the  ground,  breathing  an  odour  of  many  centuries, 
damp  and  cold.  Alarmed,  he  stopped,  crouched  in  a  corner, 
his  cap  over  his  eyes;  but  the  damp  saltpetre  of  the  walls 
affected  him,  and  suddenly  a  loud  sneeze,  which  made  the 
tourists  recoil,  betrayed  him ! 

"  Tiens,  Bonnivard!  "  exclaimed  the  fast  little  Parisienne 
in  the  Directoire  hat,  whom  the  member  of  the  Jockey  Club 
called  his  niece. 

The  Tarasconnais  did  not  permit  himself  to  show  any 
signs  of  being  disturbed. 

"It  is  really  very  interesting,  these  oubliettes .' "  he 
remarked  in  the  most  natural  tone  in  the  world,  as  if  he 
also  was  a  mere  visitor  for  pleasure  to  the  dungeon.  Then 
he  mingled  with  the  other  tourists,  who  smiled  on  recog- 
nising the  Alpinist  of  the  Rigi-Kulm,  the  mainspring  of  that 
famous  ball. 

"  He  !  mossie  1  ballir,  dantsir  I  " 

The  comical  outline  of  the  little  fairy  Schwanthaler 
presented  itself  before  him,  ready  to  dance.  Truly,  he  had 
a  great  mind  to  dance  with  her.  Then,  not  knowing  how  to 
disembarrass  himself  of  this  excited  little  bit  of  a  woman, 
he  offered  her  his  arm,  and  gallantly  showed  her  his  dungeon  : 
the  ring  whereon  the  captive's  chain  had  been  riveted,  the 
traces  of  his  footsteps  worn  in  the  rock  around  the  same 
pillar;    and,  never  having  heard  Tartarin  speak  with   such 


200  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

facility,  the  good  lady  never  suspected  that  he  who  was 
walking  with  her  was  also  a  State  prisoner — a  victim  to  the 
injustice  and  the  wickedness  of  men.  Terrible,  for  instance, 
was  the  parting,  when  the  unfortunate  "  Bonnivard/'  having 
led  her  to  the  door,  took  leave  of  her  with  the  smile  of  a  man 
of  the  world,  saying:—"  No,  thank  you,  ve  !  1  remain  here 
a  moment  longer."  She  bowed,  he  bowed;  and  the  gaoler, 
who  was  on  the  alert,  locked  and  bolted  the  door,  to  the 
great  astonishment  of  all. 

What  an  insult!  He  was  bathed  in  agonised  perspiration 
as  he  listened  to  the  exclamations  of  the  departing  visitors. 
Fortunately  such  torture  as  this  could  not  be  repeated  that 
day.  The  bad  weather  would  deter  tourists.  A  terrible 
wind  was  blowing  under  the  old  planks;  cries  arose  from  the 
oubliettes,  like  the  plaints  of  unburied  bodies,  and  the  ripple 
of  the  lake,  dotted  with  the  rain,  beat  against  the  walls  to 
the  edges  of  the  embrasures  whence  the  spray  was  dashed 
over  the  prisoner.  At  intervals  the  bell  of  a  steamer,  anfl 
the  patter  of  its  wheels,  broke  upon  the  reverie  of  poor  Tar- 
tarin, while  the  evening  descended  grey  and  mournful  on 
the  dungeon,  which  seemed  to  grow  larger. 

How  could  this  arrest  be  explained?  How  could  his  im- 
prisonment be  justified?  Costecalde,  perhaps— an  electoral 
manoeuvre  at  the  last  moment.  Or  had  the  Russian  police 
been  informed  of  his  imprudent  utterances,  his  proposal 
to  Sonia,  and  had  demanded  his  extradition?  But  then, 
why  arrest  the  delegates?  What  could  be  alleged  against 
these  unfortunate  men,  whose  alarm  and  despair  he  could 
picture,  although  they  were  not  in  the  dungeon  of  Bonnivard, 
in  these  stony  vaults,  traversed  at  night  by  rats  of  enormous 
size,  by  crayfish,  and  silent  spiders  with  hairy,  uncanny 
feet. 

Now  you  see  what  it  is  to  have  a  good  conscience.  Not- 
withstanding the  rats,  the  cold,  and  the  spiders,  the  great 
Tartarin  found,  amid  all  the  horrors  of  the  State  prison, 
haunted  by  the  shades  of  martyrs,  a  rude  sound  sleep, 
with  mouth  open  and  hands  clenched,  as  he  had  slept 
between  the  sky  and  the  abysses  in  the  hut  of  the  Alpine 
Club.  He  thought  he  was  still  dreaming,  when  he  heard 
his  gaoler  enter  in  the  morning. 

"  Get  up,"  said  he;    "  the  prefect  of  the  district  is  here: 


Tantarin's  Rope  201 

he  will  question  you;"  and  he  added,  with  some  respect: 
"  You  must  be  a  famous  criminal  for  the  prefect  to  put  himself 
out  about  you  as  he  has  done." 

Criminal!  No,  but  one  may  look  like  one  after  a  night 
in  a  damp  and  dusty  dungeon,  without  having  any  oppor- 
tunity to  make  one's  toilette,  however  quickly.  And  in  the 
old  stable  of  the  castle,  now  transformed  into  a  guard-house, 
embellished  with  muskets  in  racks — when  Tartarin,  after  a 
reassuring  glance  at  the  Alpinists,  who  were  seated  amongst 
the  gendarmes,  appeared  before  the  prefect  of  the  district, 
he  had  the  pleasure  of  feeling  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
tidy,  well-dressed  magistrate,  one  who  questioned  him 
severely, — 

"You  are  named  ManilofT,  is  not  that  so? — a  Russian 
subject,  an  incendiary,  a  fugitive  assassin  from  Siberia?  " 

"  Never  in  my  life !     It  is  an  error — a  misprision !  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  or  I  will  gag  you,"  interrupted  the 
captain. 

The  neat  prefect  continued:  "Well,  to  cut  short  your 
denials — do  you  know  this  rope?  " 

His  rope !  Coquin  de  sort  I  His  rope,  with  the  iron  fibre, 
made  at  Avignon.  He  bowed  his  head,  to  the  stupefaction 
of  the  delegates,  and  rephed,  "  I  know  it!  " 

"  With  this  rope  a  man  has  been  hanged  in  the  Canton  of 
Unterwald !  " 

Tartarin,  trembling,  swore  that  he  knew  nothing  about 
that. 

"  We  shall  soon  see."  Then  he  introduced  the  Italian 
tenor,  the  detective,  whom  the  Nihilists  had  hanged  to 
the  oak  on  the  Briinig,  but  whom  the  woodcutters  had 
miraculously  delivered  from  death. 

The  spy  looked  at  Tartarin:  "  That  is  not  the  man — nor," 
he  added,  looking  at  the  delegates,  "  are  those  the  others. 
There  has  been  a  mistake  here." 

The  prefect  was  furious:  then,  to  Tartarin,  "  Well,  then, 
what  have  you  done?  " 

"  That  is  just  what  I  want  to  know,  ve  !  "  replied  the 
President,  with  all  the  assurance  of  innocence. 

After  some  explanations,  the  Alpinists  of  Tarascon,  set 
at  liberty,  hurried  away  from  Chillon,  of  which  place  no  one 
has  experienced  the  romantic  and  melancholy  oppression 


202  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

more  strongly  than  they.  They  stopped  at  the  pension 
Miiller,  to  get  their  luggage,  the  banner,  and  to  pay  the  bill 
of  the  dejeuner  they  had  not  had  time  to  eat:  then  they 
departed  for  Geneva  by  train.  Rain  was  falling.  Through 
the  steaming  windows  they  could  see  the  names  of  the 
stations,  Clarens,  Vevay,  Lausanne;  the  red  chalets,  the 
gardens  of  rare  shrubs — all  lying  under  a  damp  veil,  which 
dropped  from  the  branches  of  the  trees,  the  roofs  of  the 
houses,  and  the  terraces  of  the  hotels. 

Installed  in  a  corner  of  the  long  Swiss  railway  carriage, 
two  seats  face  to  face,  the  Alpinists  looked  defeated  and 
discomfited.  Bravida,  very  bitter,  complained  of  pain,  and 
all  the  time  kept  asking  Tartarin,  with  fierce  irony:  "  Eh, 
be  1  you  haven't  seen  Bonnivard's  dungeon,  have  you? 
You  wished  to  see  it  so  much,  too!  I  believe  you  have 
seen  it,  after  all,  que  ? "  Excourbani^s,  voiceless  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  gazed  piteously  at  the  lake,  which  the 
line  skirted:  "There  is  water  enough,  Boudiou  t  After 
this,  I  shall  never  take  another  bath  as  long  as  I  live !  " 

Upset  by  a  shock  from  which  he  had  not  yet  recovered, 
Pascalon,  the  banner  between  his  knees,  hid  himself  behind 
it,  looking  right  and  left,  like  a  hare.  And  Tartarin  ?  Oh ! 
he;  always  calm  and  dignified,  he  was  improving  his  mind 
reading  the  papers  from  southern  France,  a  packet  of 
journals  forwarded  to  the  pension  Miiller,  which  had  all 
copied  from  the  Forum  the  narrative  of  his  ascent — which 
he  had  dictated  and  enlarged — embellished  by  startling 
eulogies.  All  of  a  sudden,  our  hero  uttered  a  cry — a  loud 
cry  which  pervaded  the  carriage.  All  the  travellers  rose: 
they  thought  an  accident  had  occurred.  It  was  only  that 
these  words  had  caught  Tartarin's  eyes  in  the  Forum — 
"  Listen  to  this !  "  he  cried  to  the  Alpinists:  "  '  It  is  reported 
that  V.  P.  C.  A.  Costecalde,  who  has  scarcely  recovered 
from  the  jaundice  which  has  afflicted  him  for  some  days, 
is  about  to  leave  here  with  a  view  to  ascend  Mont  Blanc 
— to  go  higher  up  than  Tartarin !  '  Ah !  the  bandit !  He 
wants  to  destroy  the  eflfect  of  my  Jungfrau !  Well,  wait 
a  little ;  I  will  take  the  wind  out  of  you  and  your  mountain ! 
Chamonix  is  only  a  few  miles  from  Geneva — I  will  do  Mont 
Blanc  before  him !     Are  you  agreed,  my  boys  ?  " 

Bravida    protested.    Outre!    He    had    had    adventures 


The  Hotel  Baltet  203 

enough.  "  Enough,  and  more  than  enough/'  growled 
Excourbani^s  in  a  low  tone,  in  his  husky  voice. 

"  And  you,  Pascalon.?  "  asked  Tartarin,  gently. 

The  pupil  bleated  without  raising  his  eyes:  "  Ma-as-ter!  " 
He  also  denied  him  1 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  hero,  solemnly  and  sorrowfully. 
"  Then  I  will  go  alone.  I  shall  have  all  the  honour.  Zou  1 
Give  me  the  banner !  " 


XII 

THE  HOTEL  BALTET  AT  CHAMONIX — THAT  SMELL  OF  GARLIC ! — 
CONCERNING  THE  USES  OF  THE  CORD  IN  ALPINE  EX- 
CURSIONS— SHAKE  HANDS  ! — A  PUPIL  OF  SCHOPENHAUER's 
— AT  THE  GRANDS-MULETS — "  TARTARIN,  I  MUST  SPEAK 
TO   YOU  " 

The  clock  of  Chamonix  was  striking  nine  on  a  chilly,  wet 
evening.  All  the  streets  were  dark,  all  the  houses  shut 
up,  except  where  occasionally  the  gas  of  the  hotels  blazed 
out  and  made  the  surroundings  still  more  sombre  in  the 
vague  reflection  of  the  snow,  a  star  of  white  under  a  night 
of  sky. 

At  the  Hotel  Baltet,  one  of  the  best  and  most  frequented 
in  the  Alpine  village,  the  numerous  travellers  and  excur- 
sionists had  dispersed  by  degrees,  tired  out  by  the  fatigues 
of  the  day,  so  there  remained  in  the  grand  salon  only  an 
English  parson  playing  draughts  with  his  wife,  while  his 
innumerable  daughters  in  pinafore  aprons  were  engaged  in 
copying  the  notices  for  the  next  services;  and  seated,  in 
front  of  the  hearth,  on  which  blazed  a  good  fire  of  logs,  a 
young  Swede,  hollow-cheeked  and  pale,  who  was  regarding 
the  fire  with  a  mournful  air  while  he  drank  kirsch  and  seltzer- 
water.  Occasionally  a  belated  tourist  traversed  the  salon 
with  soaked  gaiters  and  glistening  waterproof;  went  up  to 
a  big  barometer  hanging  on  the  wall,  tapped  it,  watched 
the  mercury  for  the  next  day's  weather,  and  turned  away 
in  consternation.     Not  a  word,  no  other  manifestation  of 


204  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

life  save  the  crackling  of  the  fire,  the  dashing  of  the  sleet 
against  the  windows,  and  the  roaring  of  the  Arve  beneath  the 
wooden  bridge,  a  few  yards  from  the  hotel. 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  salon  was  opened,  a  silver-laced 
porter  entered  laden  with  valises  and  rugs,  with  four  Alpinists, 
shivering,  and  bewildered  by  the  sudden  change  from  dark- 
ness and  cold  to  light  and  warmth. 

"  Boudiou  1  what  weather!  " 

"  Something  to  eat,  zou  !  " 

"  Warm  the  beds,  que  !  " 

They  all  spoke  together  beneath  their  comforters  and 
wraps  and  ear  protectors,  and  no  one  knew  which  to  listen 
to,  until  a  short  fat  man,  whom  they  called  the  President, 
imposed  silence  upon  them  by  crying  louder  than  all,  in  a 
commanding  tone, — 

"  Bring  me  the  visitors'  book  first." 

Then,  turning  the  leaves  with  a  benumbed  hand,  he  read 
aloud  the  names  of  the  travellers  who,  during  the  last  eight 
days,  had  sojourned  at  the  hotel.  Doctor  Schwanthaler 
and  Frau — again!  Astier-Rehu,  of  the  French  Academy! 
He  turned  over  two  or  three  pages,  growing  pale  when  he 
saw  a  name  resembling  that  of  which  he  was  in  search. 
Then  at  length,  as  he  threw  the  book  on  the  table  with  a 
triumphant  laugh,  the  little  man  cut  a  caper — an  extra- 
ordinary performance  for  such  a  fat  little  fellow — and  cried : 
"He  is  not  here,  ve  1  he  has  not  come!  He  must  come 
down  here,  at  any  rate.  Bother  Costecalde!  lagadigadeou  ! 
Quick  with  the  soup,  lads!"  And  the  worthy  Tartarin, 
having  bowed  to  the  ladies,  marched  towards  the  salle  a 
manger,  followed  by  the  delegates,  hungry  and  noisy. 

Eh?  Yes;  the  delegates — all  of  them — Bravida  himself 
amongst  them !  Is  it  possible !  What  would  they  have 
said  yonder  if  they  had  gone  home  without  Tartarin? 
Each  one  had  felt  the  same.  And  in  the  moment  of  separa- 
tion at  the  railway-station  at  Geneva  the  bii§ei  was  witness 
to  a  most  heartrending  scene  of  tears,  embraces,  and  dis- 
tressing farewells  to  the  banner, — the  result  of  which  adieux 
was  that  the  whole  party  crowded  into  the  landau  which 
the  President  had  engaged  to  carry  him  to  Chamonix. 
A  superb  route  to  which  they  firmly  closed  their  eyes, 
swathed  in  wraps,  snoring  sonorously,  without  admiring  the 


A  Smell  of  Garlic  205 

magnificent  landscape  which  from  Sallanches  displayed  itself 
through  the  rain:  chasms,  forests,  foaming  cascades,  and, 
according  to  the  windings  of  the  valley,  alternately  visible 
or  shrouded,  the  crest  of  Mont  Blanc  above  the  clouds. 
Fatigued  by  this  kind  of  natural  beauty,  the  Tarasconnais 
only  sought  how  to  make  up  for  the  bad  night  they  had 
passed  under  lock  and  key  at  Chillon.  And  now,  once  more, 
at  the  end  of  the  long,  deserted  salle  a  manger  of  the  Hotel 
Baltet,  while  being  served  with  the  re-heated  soup  and 
removes  of  the  table  d'hote,  they  ate  ravenously,  without 
speaking,  only  preoccupied  in  their  desire  to  get  to  bed 
as  quickly  as  possible. 

Suddenly,  Spiridion  Excourbani^s,  who  had  been  eating 
like  a  man  in  his  sleep,  rose  up  out  of  his  place,  and,  sniffing 
the  air,  said, — 

"  Outre  I  what  a  smell  of  garlic !  " 

"  That's  true,  that  is  the  smell,"  remarked  Bravida; 
and  all  the  party,  aroused  by  this  recall  to  their  native 
land,  this  smell  of  the  national  dishes,  which  Tartarin  had 
not  breathed  for  a  long  while,  turned  in  their  chairs  with 
gastronomic  anxiety.  The  odour  came  from  the  other  end 
of  the  salle,  from  a  small  room  wherein  was  a  traveller 
supping  alone — no  doubt  a  personage  of  importance,  for 
every  minute  the  cap  of  the  chef  was  visible  at  the  grating 
opening  to  the  kitchen,  to  pass  up  a  pile  of  little  covered 
dishes,  which  were  carried  by  the  waitress  to  the  little  room. 

"  Some  one  from  the  South,"  murmured  the  gentle 
Pascalon;  and  the  President,  who  had  become  pale  at  the 
idea  of  Costecalde,  commanded, — 

"  Go  and  see,  Spiridion;  you  know  what  to  say." 

A  loud  burst  of  laughter  arose  from  the  room  which 
the  brave  man  had  penetrated  to  by  his  chief's  commands, 
whence  he  led  in  by  the  hand  a  long-nosed  individual  with 
comic  eyes,  his  serviette  tucked  under  his  chin,  like  the 
gastronomous  horse. 

"Fe/     Bompard!" 

''Tel    The  Impostor !  " 

"  He  !    Adieu,  Gonzague.     Comment  te  va  ?  " 

"Pretty  well,  gentlemen;  I  am  your  most  obedient," 
said  the  courier,  shaking  hands  all  round,  and  seating 
himself  at  the  table  with  the  Tarasconnais  to  partake  with 


2o6  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

them  a  dish  of  cepes  a  Vail,  prepared  by  Mere  Baltet,  who, 
as  well  as  her  husband,  had  a  horror  of  the  table  d'hote  fare. 

Whether  it  was  the  jricot  or  the  delight  of  finding  a  resting- 
place,  the  delightful  Bompard  was  inexhaustibly  imagina- 
tive. Immediately  fatigue  and  the  desire  for  sleep  were 
dissipated;  champagne  was  gulped  in  bumpers,  and  with 
moustaches  glistening  with  bubbles,  they  laughed,  screamed, 
gesticulated,  embraced  each  other,  full  of  effusiveness. 

"  I  will  not  leave  you  any  more,"  Bompard  was  saying. 
"  My  Peruvians  have  gone  away.     I  am  at  liberty." 

"  At  liberty !  Then  you  can  make  the  ascent  of  Mont 
Blanc  with  me  to-morrow.?  " 

"  Ah,  you  are  going  to  do  Mont  Blanc,  demc'in  ?  "  replied 
Bompard  without  enthusiasm. 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  to  put  Costecalde's  nose  out  of  joint. 
When  he  comes,  uit  1  No  more  Mont  Blanc !  You  are  with 
me,  Gonzague?  " 

*'  I'm  there,  I'm  there;  if  the  weather  suits.  It  is  an 
ascent  which  is  not  always  pleasant  at  this  season." 

"  Ah!  vdi  with  your  '  not  pleasant! '  "  said  the  worthy 
Tartarin,  winking  with  a  meaning  which  Bompard,  on  his 
part,  did  not  seem  to  understand. 

"  Let  us  have  our  coffee  in  the  salon.  We  will  consult 
with  Pere  Baltet.  He  knows  all  about  it.  He  is  an  old 
guide  who  has  made  the  ascent  twenty-seven  times." 

The  delegates  cried  simultaneously, — 

"  Twenty-seven  times !     Boufre  !  " 

"  Bompard  is  always  exaggerating,"  said  the  P.  C.  A. 
severely,  with  a  touch  of  envy. 

In  the  salon  they  found  the  parson's  family  still  bent 
over  the  church  notices,  the  father  and  mother  nodding  over 
their  game  of  draughts,  and  the  long  Swede  stirring  his 
kirsch  and  seltzer  with  the  same  listless  gesture.  But  the 
invasion  of  the  Tarasconnais,  brightened  up  by  the  cham- 
pagne, gave  some  little  entertainment,  as  we  may  imagine, 
to  the  young  church-women.  These  charming  young  girls 
had  never  seen  coffee  taken  with  so  much  mimicry  and  so 
much  rolling  of  eyes. 

"  Sugar,  Tartarin?  " 

"  Well,  no.  Commandant.  You  know  that  since  I  was 
in  Africa " 


Pere  Baltet  207 

"  True,  pardon!     Te  1    Here  is  M.  Baltet."' 

"  Sit  down  there,  que,  M.  Baltet." 

"  Long  live  M.  Baltet!     Ha!  ha!  jen  de  brut  !  " 

Surrounded  and  pressed  upon  by  these  people  whom  he 
had  never  seen  in  his  life  P^re  Baltet  smiled  calmly.  A 
robust  Savoyard,  tall  and  broad-shouldered,  his  back 
rounded,  his  step  slow,  his  thick  and  shaven  face  was  lighted 
up  by  a  pair  of  cunning  eyes  still  youthful,  contrasting  with 
his  baldness  caused  by  a  frost-bite  one  early  morning  on  the 
snow-fields, 

"  These  gentlemen  wish  to  ascend  Mont  Blanc?  "  said  he, 
gauging  the  Tarasconnais  with  a  look  at  once  humble  and 
ironical.  Tartarin  was  about  to  reply,  but  Bompard  antici- 
pated him, — 

"  Is  not  the  season  rather  advanced.-*  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  old  guide.  "  Here  is  a  Swedish  gentle- 
man who  will  go  up  to-morrow;  and  I  am  expecting,  at  the 
end  of  the  week,  two  American  gentlemen  to  ascend  also. 
One  of  them  is  blind." 

"  I  know — I  met  him  on  the  Guggi." 

"  Ah!  monsieur  has  been  to  the  Guggi?  " 

"  Eight  days  ago,  going  up  the  Jungfrau." 

There  was  a  flutter  among  the  Evangelical  ladies,  their 
plumes  rustled,  and  they  raised  their  heads  to  look  at 
Tartarin,  which  action,  for  Englishwomen,  who  are  great 
climbers,  and  experts  in  all  sports,  carried  considerable 
authority.     He  had  been  up  the  Jungfrau ! 

"  A  good  expedition,"  said  Pere  Baltet,  looking  at  the 
P.  C.  A.  with  astonishment;  while  Pascalon,  alarmed  by 
the  ladies,  blushed,  and  bleated, — 

"  Ma-a-ster,  tell  them  the — the  crevasse." 

The  President  smiled:  "Child!"  But  all  the  same  he 
commenced  his  recital  of  his  fall;  first  with  a  touch-and-go 
listless  air,  then  he  warmed  up  and  illustrated  the  narrative 
with  action,  such  as  kicking  at  the  end  of  the  cord,  over 
the  chasm,  appeals  with  stiffened  hands,  etc.  The  ladies 
shivered,  devouring  him  with  their  cold  English  eyes — those 
eyes  which  open  so  widely  and  round. 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  voice  of  Bompard  rose 
loudly, — 

"  Up  on  Chimborazo  we  do  not  tie  ourselves  to  cross  the 
crevasses." 


2o8  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

The  delegates  looked  at  him.  As  a  Tarasconnade,  this 
beat  everything!  "Oh,  that  Bompard!"  murmured 
Pascalon,  with  ingenuous  admiration. 

But  Pere  Baltet,  taking  Chimborazo  quite  seriously,  pro- 
tested against  the  non-employment  of  the  rope.  According 
to  his  view,  no  ascent  was  possible  on  ice  without  ropes — a 
good  Manilla  rope.  At  least,  then,  if  one  slipped,  the  others 
could  hold  him  up. 

"  Supposing  the  rope  does  not  break,  Monsieur  Baltet," 
said  Tartarin,  recalling  the  catastrophe  on  the  Matterhorn. 

But  the  hotel-keeper  replied  deliberately:  "  The  rope  did 
not  break  on  the  Matterhorn.  The  rear  guide  cut  it  with 
his  axe." 

As  Tartarin  became  angry  at  this,  he  continued:  "You 
must  excuse  me,  monsieur;  the  guide  was  within  his  rights. 
He  perceived  the  impossibility  of  holding  the  others,  and  he 
detached  them  to  save  the  lives  of  himself,  his  son,  and  the 
traveller  who  had  accompanied  them.  Had  it  not  been  for 
his  determination,  there  would  have  been  seven  victims 
instead  of  four." 

Then  a  discussion  commenced.  Tartarin  maintained  that, 
once  attached  to  the  line,  it  was  a  matter  of  honourable  engage- 
ment to  live  or  die  together;  and  then,  influenced  by  the 
presence  of  ladies,  he  rose  to  the  occasion.  He  applied  his 
words  to  facts,  to  people  present.  "  Thus,"  said  he,  "  when 
to-morrow,  te,  in  attaching  myself  to  Bompard,  it  would  not 
be  only  a  precaution  that  I  would  take,  but  an  oath  before 
Heaven  and  my  fellow-men  only  to  live  with  my  companion, 
and  to  die  rather  than  return  without  him,  coquin  de 
sort !  " 

"  I  accept  the  pledge  for  myself,  as  well  as  for  you,  Tar- 
tarin," exclaimed  Bompard,  from  the  other  side  of  the  round 
table. 

This  was  an  affecting  moment. 

The  parson,  as  if  electrified,  rose  and  inflicted  on  our  hero 
a  pumping  hand-grip,  English  fashion.  His  wife  followed 
his  example;  while  all  his  daughters  continued  to  shake 
hands  with  a  vigour  which,  properly  applied,  would  have 
pumped  water  to  the  fifth  story  of  the  hotel.  The  delegates, 
I  am  bound  to  state,  displayed  less  enthusiasm. 

"  Eh,  be  !    I  am  of  M.  Baltet's  opinion,"  said  Bravida. 


A  Pupil  of  Schopenhauer  209 

"  In  cases  like  these,  it's  every  one  for  himself,  pardi  !  and 
I  can  quite  understand  that  stroke  of  the  axe." 

"  You  astonish  me,  Placide,"  said  Tartarin,  severely;  then 
quite  privately  he  added :  "  Hold,  you  miserable  man — 
England  is  watching  us !  " 

The  old  warrior,  who  decidedly  had  kept  a  store  of  bitter- 
ness in  his  heart  since  the  excursion  to  Chillon,  made  a  gesture 
which  signified  his  contempt  for  "  England,"  and  perhaps  he 
would  have  drawn  upon  himself  a  severe  reprimand  from 
the  President,  irritated  by  so  much  cynicism,  when  the  young 
man  with  the  melancholy  mien,  full  of  grog  and  sadness, 
introduced  his  bad  French  into  the  conversation.  He  also 
maintained  that  the  guide  was  right  to  cut  the  rope — to 
put  an  end  to  the  existence  of  four  unhappy  individuals 
still  young,  that  is  to  say,  condemned  to  live  a  certain  time 
— to  lay  them  to  rest  by  one  stroke — such  an  action  was 
both  noble  and  generous ! 

Tartarin  at  this  exclaimed, — 

"  How,  young  man !  at  your  age,  do  you  speak  of  life  with 
this  abandonment — this  anger!  What  harm  has  existence 
done  you?  " 

"  Nothing;  it  merely  bores  me." 

He  was  studying  philosophy  at  Christiania,  he  had  imbibed 
ideas  from  Schopenhauer  and  Hartmann,  and  found  life 
gloomy,  foolish,  chaotic.  Very  near  suicide,  he  had  closed  his 
books  at  his  parents'  urgent  prayers,  and  had  gone  to  travel; 
still  meeting  everywhere  with  the  same  ennui,  the  gloomy 
misery  of  the  world.  Tartarin  and  his  friends  appeared  to 
him  the  only  people  contented  to  live  whom  he  had  hitherto 
met. 

The  good  P.  C.  A.  began  to  laugh.  "  The  race  comes  out 
there,  young  man.  We  are  all  the  same  at  Tarascon,  the 
country  of  le  Bon  Dieu.  From  morn  till  night  we  laugh,  we 
sing,  and  the  rest  of  the  time  we  dance  the  farandole,  like  this 
— te  I  "  Then  he  cut  an  entrechat  with  the  grace  and  light- 
ness of  a  great  cockchafer  spreading  his  wings. 

But  the  delegates  had  not  nerves  of  steel,  or  the  inde- 
fatigable energy  of  their  chief.  Excourbani^s  growled: 
"  The  Presidain  is  dancing,  and  it  is  close  on  midnight!  " 

Bravida  rose  in  a  rage :  "  Let  us  go  to  bed,  ve  1  I  shall  not 
have  any  more  of  my  sciatica  there." 


2IO  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

Tartarin  consented,  thinking  of  the  ascent  on  the  morrow; 
and  the  Tarasconnais  went,  candlestick  in  hand,  up  the 
wide  granite  staircase  to  their  rooms,  while  the  Pdre  Baltet 
proceeded  to  busy  himself  about  provisions  and  to  engage 
guides  and  mules. 

"  Te!  it  snows!" 

These  were  the  first  words  which  escaped  Tartarin  as  he 
saw  the  frosted  windows  next  morning,  and  perceived  that 
the  room  was  bathed  in  a  white  reflection;  but  when  he 
hung  up  his  little  shaving-glass,  he  understood  that  he  had 
been  mistaken,  and  that  Mont  Blanc  was  glittering  opposite 
in  a  bright  sun  and  making  all  this  light.  He  opened  his 
window  to  the  breeze  from  the  glacier,  fresh  and  comforting, 
which  carried  to  his  ears  all  the  tinkling  of  the  cow-bells  and 
the  long  bellowings  of  the  shepherds'  horns.  Something 
strong  and  pastoral,  which  he  had  not  breathed  in  Switzer- 
land, filled  the  air. 

Downstairs  an  assemblage  of  guides  and  porters  awaited 
him.  The  Swede  already  had  mounted,  and,  mingled  with 
the  spectators,  who  formed  a  circle,  was  the  parson's  family; 
all  these  brisk  damsels,  in  morning  toilettes,  had  come  down 
to  shake  hands  again  with  the  hero  who  had  haunted  their 
dreams. 

"A  splendid  morning!  make  haste!"  cried  the  hotel- 
keeper,  whose  bald  head  shone  in  the  sun  like  a  pebble, 
Tartarin  had  need  to  hurry,  for  it  was  no  light  task  to  awake 
the  delegates,  who  were  to  accompany  him  as  far  as  the 
Pierre-Pointue,  where  the  mule-path  stops.  Neither  prayers 
nor  expostulations  could  induce  the  Commandant  to  get  up ; 
with  his  nightcap  down  to  his  ears,  and  his  nose  against  the 
wall,  he  contented  himself  with  replying  to  the  objurgations 
of  the  President  by  a  cynical  Tarasconnais  proverb:  "  He 
who  has  a  character  for  early  rising  may  sleep  till  noon." 
As  for  Bompard,  he  kept  repeating  all  the  time:  "  Ah!  get 
out  with  your  Mont  Blanc !  what  rubbish !  "  and  he  would 
not  get  up  until  formally  commanded  to  do  so  by  the  President 
of  the  Alpine  Club. 

At  length  the  party  started,  and  crossed  the  little  streets  of 
Chamonix  in  a  most  imposing  array — Pascalon  in  front,  on  a 
mulCj  the  banner  unfurled;   and  last,  grave  as  a  mandarin, 


A  Philosophic  Discussion  211 

amongst  the  guides  and  porters  who  surrounded  his  mule, 
Tartarin  himself,  a  more  curious  Alpinist  than  ever,  with  a 
new  pair  of  spectacles  of  smoked  glass,  and  his  famous  rope 
made  in  Avignon,  recovered  we  know  at  how  great  a  price. 

Stared  at  almost  as  much  as  the  banner,  he  was  delighted 
beneath  that  mask  of  importance,  pleased  with  the  pic- 
turesqueness  of  the  streets  of  the  Savoyard  village,  so 
different  from  the  Swiss  village — too  clean,  too  varnished, 
like  a  new  toy,  the  bazaar  chalet — the  contrast  of  these 
buildings  scarcely  above  ground,  in  which  the  stable  occupies 
nearly  all  the  space,  with  the  large,  sumptuous  hotels,  five 
stories  high,  whose  glaring  signs  strike  one  equally  as  do  the 
silver-banded  cap  of  a  porter,  the  black  suit  and  the  pumps 
of  the  maitre  d'hotel,  in  the  midst  of  the  Savoyard  costumes, 
the  caps,  the  fustian,  and  the  coalheavers'  hats  with  large 
flaps.  On  the  place  are  some  unhorsed  vehicles,  travelling- 
carriages  side  by  side  with  dung-carts;  a  drove  of  pigs 
basking  in  the  sun  before  the  post-office,  whence  exits  an 
Englishman  with  his  packet  of  letters  and  his  Times,  which  he 
reads  as  he  walks,  before  opening  his  correspondence.  The 
cavalcade  traversed  all  this,  accompanied  by  the  whinnying 
of  the  mules,  the  war-cry  of  Excourbanies,  to  whom  the  sun 
has  restored  the  use  of  his  "  gong,"  the  pastoral  carillon  on 
the  slopes,  and  the  roaring  of  the  glacier-torrent — quite  white, 
shining  as  if  it  were  carr\'ing  with  it  sun  and  snow. 

At  the  end  of  the  village,  Bompard  approached  his  mule 
to  that  of  the  President,  and  said  to  him,  as  he  rolled  his 
extraordinary  eyes:   "  Taxtaxein,  I  must  speak  to  you !  " 

"  By  and  by,"  said  the  P.  C.  A.,  who  was  deep  in  a  philo- 
sophic discussion  with  the  young  Swede,  from  whom  he  was 
endeavouring  to  drive  out  the  black  pessimism  by  means 
of  the  marvellous  spectacle  which  surrounded  them — the 
pastures  with  their  wide  zones  of  light  and  shade,  those 
forests  of  dark  green  crested  with  the  whiteness  of  the 
glittering  neve. 

After  two  attempts  to  approach  Tartarin,  Bompard 
gave  up  the  idea  perforce.  After  crossing  the  Arve  by  a 
little  bridge,  the  caravan  found  itself  on  one  of  those  narrow 
pathways  which  wind  through  the  pine-woods,  on  which 
the  mules,  one  by  one,  shave  all  the  turns  of  the  track  above 
the  abysses,  and  the  Tarasconnais  had  quite  enough  to  do 


2  I  2  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

to  keep  their  equilibrium  by  the  aid  of  "  Allans  I  "  "  Douce- 
main  !  "  "  Outre  !  "  by  which  they  mariaged  their  animals. 

At  the  hut  on  the  Pierre-Pointue,  in  which  Pascalon  and 
Excourbanies  were  to  await  the  return  of  the  climbers, 
Tartarin,  very  much  occupied  in  ordering  breakfast  and 
in  looking  after  the  guides  and  porters,  turned  still  a  deaf 
ear  to  Bompard.  But  it  was  a  curious  thing,  which  no  one 
remarked  until  later,  that  notwithstanding  the  fine  weather 
and  the  good  wine,  the  pure  air,  6000  feet  above  the  sea, 
the  dejeuner  was  melancholy.  While  the  guides  were 
laughing  and  joking  on  their  side,  the  Tarasconnais  were 
silent,  occupied  solely  with  the  table,  and  the  only  noise 
being  the  clinking  of  glasses  and  the  rattling  of  dishes  on 
the  wooden  board.  Was  it  the  presence  of  the  mournful 
Swede,  or  the  anxiety  visible  in  the  face  of  Gonzague,  or 
some  presentiment?  The  party  continued  the  journey,  as 
melancholy  as  a  regiment  without  music,  towards  the  glacier 
Des  Bossons  where  the  real  ascent  begins. 

When  putting  his  foot  on  the  ice,  Tartarin  could  not  help 
smiling  at  the  recollection  of  the  Guggi,  and  his  patent 
crampons.  What  a  contrast  between  the  neophyte  he  there 
had  been,  and  the  first-class  Alpine  climber  he  felt  he  had 
become !  Firm  on  his  heavy  boots,  which  the  porter  at  the 
hotel  had  spiked  with  four  big  nails,  expert  in  the  use  of  his 
axe,  he  scarcely  required  the  assistance  of  the  guides,  and 
less  to  sustain  himself  than  to  have  the  route  indicated. 
The  smoked  glasses  tempered  the  glare  of  the  glacier,  which 
a  recent  avalanche  had  powdered  with  fresh  snow,  where 
the  little  "  lakes  "  of  sea-green  tint  appeared  here  and  there 
slippery  and  treacherous;  and  quite  calm,  assured  by  ex- 
perience that  there  was  no  danger  whatever,  Tartarin 
strode  alongside  the  smooth  shining  crevasses,  infinitely 
deep,  passing  amidst  seracs,  only  careful  to  place  his  feet 
behind  the  Swedish  student,  an  intrepid  climber,  whose 
silver-buckled  gaiters  continued  to  step  out  short  and 
clean,  and  at  the  same  distance  from  the  point  of  his  alpen- 
stock, which  seemed  a  third  limb.  Their  philosophical 
discussion  continued  in  spite  of  the  difficulties  of  the  route, 
and  people  could  hear  in  the  frozen  air  a  sonorous  sound 
as  of  a  river,  a  hearty,  familiar  voice  puffing  out,  "  You  know 
me.  Otto!" 


At  the  Grands-Mulets  213 

Bompard,  all  this  time,  was  experiencing  many  adven- 
tures. Firmly  convinced  till  that  morning  that  Tartarin 
would  never  proceed  with  his  boast,  and  that  he  (Bompard) 
would  never  do  Mont  Blanc  any  more  than  he  had  done  the 
Jungfrau,  the  unhappy  courier  was  clothed  in  his  ordinary 
costume,  without  nailing  his  boots,  nor  even  utilising  his 
famous  invention  for  shoeing  the  feet  of  soldiers;  he  had 
no  alpenstock  either — the  mountaineers  of  Chimborazo  did 
not  require  them !  Armed  only  with  the  cane  which  suited 
well  his  round  hat  and  his  ulster,  the  approach  to  the  glaciers 
terrified  him,  for,  notwithstanding  all  his  tales,  the  others 
knew  pretty  well  that  the  Impostor  had  never  made  an 
ascent.  He  consoled  himself,  however,  when  he  perceived 
from  the  moraine  how  well  Tartarin  got  on  on  the  ice,  and 
he  decided  to  follow  him  up  to  the  Grands-Mulets,  where 
they  intended  to  pass  the  night.  At  the  first  step,  he  fell 
on  his  back,  and  the  second  time  on  his  hands  and  knees. 
"  No,  no,"  he  said  to  the  guide  who  offered  to  assist  him, 
"  it  is  done  on  purpose.  The  American  fashion,  ve  !  as  at 
Chimborazo!"  This  attitude  seemed  to  him  comfortable, 
so  he  retained  it,  advancing  on  all  fours,  his  hat  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  and  his  ulster  training  behind  him  like  the  coat 
of  a  white  bear;  very  calm  withal,  and  telling  those  near 
him  how,  amid  the  Cordilleras  of  the  Andes,  he  had  climbed 
in  this  fashion  a  mountain  30,000  feet  high.  He  did  not  say 
how  long  it  look  him,  by  the  by,  but  it  must  have  been  a 
very  considerable  time,  judging  by  the  stage  up  to  the 
Grands-Mulets,  where  he  arrived  an  hour  after  Tartarin, 
dripping  with  snow,  while  his  hands  were  half-frozen  under 
his  worsted,  knitted  gloves. 

Compared  with  the  hut  on  the  Guggi,  the  cabin  erected 
by  the  commune  of  Chamonix  at  the  Grands-Mulets,  is 
truly  comfortable.  When  Bompard  came  into  the  kitchen, 
in  which  a  bright  wood  fire  was  burning,  he  found  Tartarin 
and  the  Swede  drying  their  boots,  while  the  hut-keeper, 
an  old  shrivelled-up  individual,  with  long  white  hair  falling 
in  curls,  was  exhibiting  to  them  the  treasures  of  his  little 
museum. 

Somewhat  sad  was  this  museum  of  souvenirs  of  catas- 
trophes on  Mont  Blanc  for  a  space  of  forty  years,  during 
which  period  the  old  man  had  kept  the  inn  (hut);    and. 


2  14  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

while  taking  the  objects  from  their  cases,  he  told  their 
lamentable  history.  That  morsel  of  cloth,  those  waist- 
coat-buttons, preserved  the  memory  of  a  Russian  savant, 
precipitated  by  a  whirlwind  over  the  glacier  of  the  Brenva. 
Those  teeth  were  the  remains  of  a  guide  of  the  famous 
party  of  eleven  travellers  and  porters  who  disappeared  in 
a  snow-storm.  In  the  light  of  the  dying  day,  and  the  pale 
reflection  of  the  neve  against  the  glass,  the  surroundings 
of  these  relics,  the  monotonous  recital  of  them  had  some- 
thing painful  in  them,  so  much  so  that  the  old  man's  voice 
trembled  in  the  pathetic  parts,  and  he  was  even  moved  to 
tears  in  displaying  the  green  veil  of  an  English  lady  who 
perished  in  an  avalanche  in  1827. 

Tartarin  had  only  to  compare  dates  to  convince  himself 
that  at  that  time  the  Company  was  not  in  existence  to 
arrange  non-dangerous  ascents,  yet  this  vocero  Savoyard 
touched  him,  and  he  went  to  the  door  for  a  little  fresh  air. 

Night  came  on,  and  shrouded  the  depths.  The  Bossons 
stood  out  livid,  and  seemed  very  near,  while  IMont  Blanc  rose 
high,  still  caressed  by  the  ruddy  beams  of  the  setting  sun. 
The  Southern  traveller  was  recovering  himself  at  the  sight 
of  this  smile  of  Nature,  when  the  shade  of  Bompard  came 
behind  him. 

"  Ah !  'tis  you,  Gonzague?  you  see  I  am  enjoying  the  pure 
air.  That  old  man  rather  made  me  feel  foolish  with  his 
reminiscences." 

"  Tartar«n,"  said  Bompard,  catching  hold  of  his  com- 
panion's arm  forcibly,  "  I  hope  that  you  have  had  enough 
of  this,  and  that  you  are  going  to  end  this  ridiculous  ex- 
pedition here." 

The  great  man  opened  his  eyes  with  some  anxiety  in 
them, — 

"  What  are  you  chattering  about.''  " 

Then  Bompard  drew  a  picture  of  the  thousand  terrible 
deaths  which  menaced  them — the  crevasses,  the  avalanches, 
the  storms,  the  whirlwinds  of  snow ! 

Tartarin  interrupted  him, — 

"  Ah!  vdi,  you  joker!  And  the  Company?  Is  not  Mont 
Blanc  managed  in  the  same  manner  as  the  rest?  " 

"Managed!  the  Company!"  exclaimed  Bompard,  who 
remembered  nothing  of  his  Tarasconnade ;    and  when  the 


The  Catastrophe  215 

other  repeated  it  word  for  word — the  Swiss  Society,  the 
"  farming  "  out  of  the  mountains,  the  clap-trap  crevasses, 
etc., — the  former  manager  began  to  laugh, — 

"  What!  did  you  believe  all  that?  Why,  it  was  only  a 
galejade.  Between  people  of  Tarascon,  of  course — we  know 
that  what  we  say  is — is " 

"  Then  the  Jungfrau  was  not  prepared  ?  "  said  Tartarin, 
very  much  excited. 

"  By  no  means." 

"  And  if  the  rope  had  broken?  " 

"  Ah !  my  poor  friend !  " 

The  hero  shut  his  eyes,  pale  with  the  horrifying  retro- 
spection, and  for  a  moment  he  did  not  speak.  This  land- 
scape, like  a  polar  cataclysm — cold,  sombre,  undulated, 
broken;  those  lamentations  of  the  old  inn-keeper  still 
ringing  in  his  ears.  "  Outre  !  What  made  you  tell  me  so?  " 
Then,  suddenly,  he  thought  of  the  gensses  at  Tarascon,  of 
the  banner  which  he  had  flung  out  above,  and  he  said  to 
himself  that,  with  good  guides,  a  companion  of  such  proved 

experience  as  Bompard well,  he  had  accomplished  the 

Jungfrau — why  not  attempt  Mont  Blanc  ? 

Then,  placing  his  large  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  his  friend, 
he  said  in  a  manly  voice, — 

"  Listen,  Gonzague !  " 


XIII 

THE    CATASTROPHE 

In  a  dark  night,  a  moonless  darkness,  no  stars,  no  visible 
sky,  on  the  white  quivering  surface  of  an  immense  snow 
slope,  is  unrolled  a  long  rope,  to  which  some  fearful  shadows, 
and  all  small  ones,  are  attached  in  single  file,  preceded  a 
hundred  yards  in  advance  by  a  lantern,  with  a  red  disk, 
almost  at  the  level  of  the  ground.  Blows  of  an  ice-axe  ring 
in  the  hard  snow,  the  rattling  of  the  detached  lumps  of  ice 
alone  break  the  silence  of  the  snow-field,  as  the  steps  are  cut 


2i6  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

for  the  travellers;  then  from  time  to  time  a  cry,  a  stifled 
complaint,  the  fall  of  a  body  on  the  ice,  and  suddenly  a  stout 
voice,  which  answers  from  the  end  of  the  rope,  "  Go  gently, 
Gonzague !  "  For  the  poor  Bompard  has  made  up  his  mind 
to  follow  his  friend  Tartarin  to  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc. 
Since  two  o'clock  in  the  morning — it  is  now  four  by  the 
President's  repeater — the  unhappy  courier  has  been  advanc- 
ing, groping  in  the  dark,  a  very  convict  on  the  chain,  dragged 
forward,  pushed  up,  swaying,  and  stumbling;  compelled  to 
restrain  the  varied  exclamations  which  his  mishaps  would 
have  wrung  from  him;  for  the  avalanche  threatened  on  all 
sides,  the  least  disturbance — a  little  vibration  of  the  clear  air 
— would  determine  the  fall  of  the  snow  or  the  ice.  To  suffer 
in  silence — what  a  torture  for  a  man  of  Tarascon ! 

But  the  party  had  halted:  Tartarin  asked  why.  A  dis- 
cussion was  heard  in  a  low  voice,  in  animated  whispers: 
"It  is  your  companion  who  does  not  wish  to  advance  any 
farther,"  said  the  Swede.  The  order  of  march  was  changed, 
the  human  chaplet  extended,  turned  back  on  itself,  and  the 
party  found  itself  on  the  edge  of  an  enormous  crevasse,  one 
which  mountaineers  call  a  "  roiure."  The  previous  ones  had 
been  crossed  by  means  of  a  ladder  placed  across  them,  over 
which  the  climbers  crawled  on  hands  and  knees:  in  this  case, 
the  crevasse  was  much  too  wide,  and  the  other  lip  raised  itself 
eighty  to  a  hundred  feet  high.  The  descent  had  to  be  made 
to  the  bottom  of  the  hole,  which  narrowed  very  much,  and 
then  the  ascent  on  the  opposite  side  in  like  manner.  But 
Bompard  obstinately  declined. 

Leaning  over  the  chasm,  which  the  darkness  caused  to 
appear  unfathomable,  he  watched  the  guides  making  the 
necessary  preparations  by  the  light  of  the  lantern.  Tartarin, 
who  was  himself  by  no  means  easy  in  his  mind,  gave  himself 
courage  by  exhorting  his  friend:  "  Come,  Gonzague,  zou  /  " 
and  then,  in  a  lower  tone,  he  appealed  to  his  honour;  he 
invoked  Tarascon,  the  banner,  and  the  Alpine  Club. 

"  Ah!  va'i,  the  Club — I  no  longer  belong  to  it,"  he  replied, 
cynically. 

Then  Tartarin  explained  to  him  where  to  put  his  feet, 
than  which  nothing  could  be  more  easy. 

"  Yes,  for  you  perhaps,  but  not  for  me!  " 

"  Why  not?     You  say  you  have  been  in  the  habit " 


The  Catastrophe  217 

"  Be  I  yes,  certainly  the  habit, — but  of  what?  I  have  so 
many  habits.     The  habit  of  smoking  or  sleeping " 

"  Particularly  of  lying !  "  interrupted  the  President. 

"  Of  exaggerating,  if  you  will,"  replied  Bompard,  without 
moving  a  muscle. 

However,  after  much  hesitation,  the  threat  to  leave  him  all 
dlone  decided  him  in  descending  slowly  and  carefully  this 
terrible  Jacob's  ladder.  To  ascend  was  more  difficult,  as 
the  opposite  wall  is  as  slippery  and  smooth  as  marble,  and 
higher  than  the  Rene  Tower  at  Tarascon.  From  below,  the 
guide's  lamp  looked  a  very  glow-worm.  It  was  necessary 
to  make  up  one's  mind,  nevertheless.  The  snow  under  foot 
was  not  solid;  the  dropping  of  a  spring,  and  running  water, 
were  making  a  large  fissure,  which  the  men  could  guess  at 
better  than  they  could  see,  at  the  foot  of  the  ice-wall,  and 
which  sent  up  a  cold  breath  from  the  abyss. 

"  Go  gently,  Gonzague,  for  fear  of  falling !  " 

This  phrase,  which  Tartarin  enunciated  in  an  almost 
supplicatory  manner,  lent  a  solemn  significance,  to  the 
respective  positions  of  the  ascensionists,  hanging  now  by 
hands  and  feet,  one  over  the  other,  tied  by  a  rope,  and  by 
the  similarity  of  their  movements;  so  that  the  fall  or  the 
awkwardness  of  one  would  put  all  in  danger.  And  what 
danger,  coquin  de  sort !  It  was  quiet  enough  to  listen  to  the 
falling  and  the  disintegration  of  the  debris  of  the  ice-blocks, 
and  the  echo  of  the  fall  in  the  crevasses  and  the  unknown 
depths,  to  imagine  what  a  monster's  throat  you  would  fall 
into  should  you  happen  to  make  a  false  step. 

But  what  happened?  The  long  Swede,  who  immediately 
preceded  Tartarin,  stopped,  and  touched  the  cap  of  the 
P.  C.  A.  with  his  iron-shod  heel.  The  guides  kept  crying, 
"  En  avant ! "  and  the  President,  "  Avancez  done,  jeune 
homme."  But  he  never  stirred.  Hanging  to  his  full  length, 
and  holding  with  a  negligent  hand,  the  Swede  looked  down, 
as  the  breaking  day  lightened  his  fair  beard,  and  illumined 
the  curious  expression  of  his  dilated  eyes,  while  he  made  a 
sign  to  Tartarin, — 

"  What  a  fall,  eh,  if  one  let  go !  " 

"  Outre  1  I  believe  you.  You  would  carry  us  all  down 
with  you.     Go  on !  " 

The  other  continued,  without  moving, — 


2i8  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

"  A  splendid  opportunity  to  have  done  with  life,  to  re- 
enter nothingness  through  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  to  roll  from 
crevasse  to  crevasse,  like  this  piece  of  ice  I  kick  away."  As 
he  spoke,  he  bent  over,  fearfully,  to  watch  the  piece  he  had 
detached,  which  bounded — apparently  going  on  for  ever — • 
through  the  night. 

"Unhappy  man,  take  care!"  exclaimed  Tartarin,  pale 
from  fear;  and,  desperately  clinging  to  the  wall,  he  resumed 
his  argument  of  the  day  before,  concerning  the  advantages  of 
existence:  "  It  is  good^at  your  age — a  fine  fellow  like  you. 
You  have  never  known  what  love  is,  que  ?  " 

No;  the  Swede  knew  nothing  of  it.  Ideal  love  is  the 
falsehood  of  poets;  the  other,  a  want  which  he  had  never 
experienced. 

"  Be  out  I  be  out  !  It  is  true  that  the  poets  are  something 
Tarasconic.  They  very  often  say  more  than  they  need; 
but,  at  any  rate,  the  femellan — as  they  call  women  in  our  dis- 
trict— is  gentil.  Then  one  has  children — pretty  little  things, 
who  resemble  one  !  " 

"  Ah !  yes,  the  children — a  source  of  misery !  Since  I  was 
bom,  my  mother  has  not  ceased  to  weep !  " 

"  Listen,  Otto;  you  know  me,  my  good  friend." 

Then  with  all  the  valorous  expansion  of  his  soul,  Tartarin 
set  about  to  reanimate,  to  rub  back  to  life,  this  victim  of 
Schopenhauer  and  Hartmann ;  two  punchinellos,  who  ought 
to  be  banished  as  a  punishment  for  all  the  evil  they  have  done 
to  young  men. 

Let  us  remember,  during  this  philosophic  discussion,  the 
high  wall  of  ice-cold,  sea-green,  glistening  with  a  pale 
yellow  light — and  the  human  bodies  spotted  on  its  surface, 
with  the  sinister  gurglings  which  kept  ascending  from  the 
abyss;  the  oaths  of  the  guides,  and  their  threats  to  detach 
themselves  and  leave  the  tourists,  were  all  accompani- 
ments. 

At  length,  Tartarin,  perceiving  that  no  reasoning  could 
convince  this  madman,  or  dissipate  his  infatuation,  suggested 
to  him  the  idea  of  throwing  himself  from  the  extreme  summit 
of  Mont  Blanc.  That  would  really  be  worth  the  trouble! 
A  splendid  finish  in  space.  But  to  die  here,  at  the  bottom  of 
of  a  cave!  Ah!  vdi,  what  foutaise  1  He  put  into  the  word 
so  much  persuasiveness  of  accent  and  such  conviction  that 


The  Catastrophe  219 

the  Swede  permitted  himself  to  yield,  and  then  at  length, 
one  by  one,  they  gained  the  summit  of  this  terrible  roture. 

They  untied  themselves,  and  waited  to  drink  and  eat  a 
little.  Day  was  breaking — a  cold  pallid  day — upon  a 
magnificent  amphitheatre  of  peaks  and  pinnacles,  dominated 
by  Mont  Blanc,  still  4500  feet  above.  The  guides  gesticu- 
lated and  conversed  apart,  with  many  nods  of  their  heads. 
On  the  white  ground  the  round-backed,  heavy  men  looked 
like  marmots.  Bompard  and  Tartarin  were  restless  and 
anxious,  and  left  the  Swede  to  eat  by  himself,  while  they 
came  up  to  the  group  just  as  the  chief  guide  was  saying, — 

"  When  he  smokes  his  pipe  we  must  only  say,  '  No.'  " 

"  Who  is  smoking  his  pipe.?  "  asked  Tartarin. 

"  Le  Mont  Blanc,  monsieur.     Look !  " 

The  man  indicated,  at  the  highest  peak,  a  white  smoke 
which  was  blowing  towards  Italy. 

"  Well,  my  good  friend,  and  when  Mont  Blanc  smokes  his 
pipe  what  does  it  portend?  " 

"  It  means,  monsieur,  that  a  storm  is  raging  at  the  summit 
— a  snowstorm  —  which  will  be  upon  us  ere  long.  And, 
dame  I  it  is  dangerous!  " 

"  Let  us  return,"  said  Bompard,  turning  green;  and 
Tartarin  added, — 

"  Yes,  yes,  certainly;  no  foolish  swagger!  " 

But  the  Swede  came  up  and  struck  in.  He  had  paid  to  go 
up  Mont  Blanc,  and  nothing  would  prevent  him  from  going. 
He  would  ascend  alone  if  no  one  would  accompany  him. 
"Cowards!  cowards!  "  he  added,  turning  to  the  guides;  and 
he  repeated  the  insult  in  the  same  ghostly  voice  with  which 
he  had  been  urging  himself  to  suicide  just  before. 

"  You  will  very  soon  see  whether  we  are  cowards !  Attach 
yourselves!  En  route!"  exclaimed  the  chief  guide.  This 
time  it  was  Bompard  who  protested  energetically.  He  had 
had  enough;  he  wished  that  they  would  take  him  back. 
Tartarin  seconded  him  strongly, — 

"  You  see  quite  well  that  this  young  man  is  mad !  "  he 
exclaimed,  indicating  the  Swede,  who  had  already  strode  off 
amid  the  wisps  of  snow  which  the  wind  was  throwing  in  all 
directions.  But  nothing  would  stop  these  men,  who  had  been 
called  "  cowards."  The  marmots  had  been  aroused,  and 
Tartarin  could  not  obtain  a  guide  to  lead  him  and  Bompard 


2  20  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

to  the  Grands-Mulets.  However,  the  direction  was  easy. 
Three  hours'  walking,  allowing  a  detour  of  twenty  minutes  to 
"  turn  "  the  great  roture,  if  they  were  afraid  to  pass  it  alone. 
"  Outre  I  yes,  we  are  afraid,"  said  Bompard,  without  any 
shame;  and  the  two  parties  separated. 

Now  the  Tarasconnais  were  alone.  They  advanced  with 
precaution  over  the  desert  of  snow,  attached  to  the  same 
cord,  Tartarin  in  advance,  prodding  with  his  alpenstock 
gravely,  imbued  with  the  responsibility  which  devolved 
upon  him,  searching  for  some  comfort. 

"Courage  and  coolness!  We  shall  extricate  ourselves!" 
he  said  every  instant  to  Bompard.  Thus  the  officer  in  battle 
chases  away  the  fear  he  feels  by  brandishing  his  sword  and 
crying  out  to  his  men, — 

"  En  avant  I  all  bullets  do  not  kill!  " 

At  length,  behold  our  travellers  at  the  edge  of  the  horrible 
crevasse.  Thence  there  were  no  grave  obstacles;  but  the 
wind  blew,  and  blinded  them  with  little  snowstorms.  Ad- 
vance became  impossible  without  danger  of  losing  their  way. 

"  Let  us  wait  here  a  moment,"  said  Tartarin.  A  gigantic 
serac  gave  them  shelter  at  its  base ;  they  crept  in,  stretched 
over  them  the  doubled  waterproof  of  the  President,  and 
emptied  the  rum-flask,  the  only  provision  which  had  been 
left  them  by  the  guides.  They  thus  obtained  a  little  heat 
and  comfort,  while  the  sound  of  the  step-cutting  above 
them,  growing  feebler  and  feebler,  gave  them  an  idea  of  the 
progress  of  the  expedition.  The  sound  echoed  in  the  heart 
of  the  President  like  a  regret  for  not  having  ascended  to  the 
summit  of  Mont  Blanc. 

"  Who  will  know  that.?  "  remarked  Bompard,  cynically. 
"  The  porters  have  retained  the  banner,  and  the  people  at 
Chamonix  will  think  it  is  you." 

"  You  are  right;  the  honour  of  Tarascon  is  safe,"  con- 
cluded Tartarin,  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

But  the  elements  became  furious— the  bise  in  a  storm,  the 
snow  in  masses.  The  two  friends  remained  silent,  haunted 
by  sinister  thoughts:  they  recalled  the  museum  of  the  old 
man  at  the  Mulets,  his  lamentable  narratives,  the  tale  of 
the  American  tourist,  who  was  found  petrified  with  cold  and 
hunger,  holding  in  his  frozen  hand  a  note-book,  in  which  his 


The  Catastrophe  221 

last  thoughts  were  inscribed  till  the  last  convulsion  which 
shook  the  pencil  and  caused  his  signature  to  swerve. 

"  Have  you  a  note-book,  Gonzague?  " 

And  the  other,  who  understood  without  any  explanation, 
replied, — 

"  Ah !  vdi,  a  note-book !  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  let 
myself  die  Hke  that  American?  Vite  1  let  us  be  off;  come 
away." 

"  Impossible !  At  the  first  step  we  shall  be  carried  away 
like  straws,  and  dashed  into  some  chasm !  " 

"  But  then  we  must  shout;  the  inn  is  not  far  from  here." 
And  Bompard,  on  his  knees,  his  head  protruding  from  the 
serac  in  the  attitude  of  a  cow  lowing,  shouted:  "Help! 
Help!" 

^'  Aux  amies  ! '''  cried  Tartarin  in  his  turn,  in  his  most 
sonorous  voice,  which  the  grotto  echoed  like  thunder. 

Bompard  seized  him  by  the  arm:  "Miserable  man,  the 
serac  1 "  Positively  the  whole  block  trembled;  another 
breath,  and  the  mass  of  accumulated  ice-blocks  would  fall 
upon  them.  They  remained  frozen,  motionless,  wrapped 
in  a  terrible  silence,  which  was  soon  broken  by  a  distant 
rumbling,  which  came  nearer  and  nearer,  increased,  spread 
over  the  horizon,  and  finally  died  away  underground  in  the 
gulfs  of  the  ice. 

"Poor  fellows!"  murmured  Tartarin,  thinking  of  the 
Swede  and  his  guides,  carried  away  by  the  avalanche,  no 
doubt.  Bompard  shook  his  head:  "  We  shall  scarcely  fare 
better  next  time,"  he  said.  In  fact,  their  situation  had 
become  very  critical;  they  did  not  dare  to  move  in  their 
ice-grotto,  nor  could  they  venture  out  in  the  storm. 

To  complete  their  terror  of  mind,  from  the  valley  now 
arose  the  baying  of  a  dog — a  death-wail.  Suddenly,  Tar- 
tarin, with  staring  eyes  and  trembling  lips,  seized  the  hands 
of  his  companion,  and,  looking  at  him  kindly,  said, — 

"Forgive  me,  Gonzague;  yes,  yes,  forgive  me.  I  have 
often  been  unkind  to  you.     I  treated  you  as  a  liar " 

"  Ah!  vdi,  what  does  that  matter.?  " 

"  I  have  as  little  right  as  any  one  to  do  so,  for  I  have  told 
many  lies  in  my  life,  and  at  this  supreme  hour  I  feel  the 
necessity  to  confess — to  relieve  my  feelings — to  publicly 
avow  my  impostures !  " 


22  2  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

"  Impostures !    You  ?  " 

"  Listen  to  me,  friend;  in  the  first  place^  I  never  killed 
that  lion !  " 

"  That  does  not  surprise  me  at  all,"  replied  Bompard, 
quickly.  "  But  why  should  you  worry  yourself  about  so 
little?  It  is  the  sun  which  causes  it;  we  are  born  with  the 
lying  faculty.  Ve !  myself — have  I  ever  told  the  truth 
since  I  came  into  the  world  ?  As  soon  as  I  open  my  mouth, 
my  Southern  blood  ascends.  The  people  of  whom  I  speak 
—well,  I  do  not  know  them!  The  countries.?  I  have  never 
been  in  them !  and  all  this  makes  such  a  tissue  of  invention 
that  I  can't  even  unravel  it  myself!  " 

"  It  is  imagination,  pechere  1 "  sighed  Tartarin.  "  We 
are  liars  in  imagination!  " 

"  And  such  lies  have  never  done  any  one  any  harm;  while 
an  envious  person,  such  a  one  as  Costecalde " 

"  Let  us  not  speak  of  the  wretch ! "  interrupted  the  P.  C.  A., 
seized  with  sudden  rage.     "  Coquin  de  bon  sort !     It  is,  all 

the  same,  a  little  annoying "     He  suddenly  stopped  at 

a  gesture  from  Bompard.  "Ah!  yes,  the  serac"  and 
lowering  his  voice,  forced  to  swallow  his  anger,  poor  Tartarin 
continued  his  imprecations  in  a  low  voice,  with  an  enormous 
and  comical  disarticulation  of  his  mouth:  "  It  is  rather 
annoying  to  die  in  the  flower  of  one's  age  by  the  fault  of  a 
scoundrel  who  at  this  moment  is  taking  his  demi-tasse  com- 
fortably in  the  Tour  de  ville  !  " 

But  while  he  was  fulminating,  the  sky  was  clearing  by 
degrees.  The  snow  ceased,  the  wind  dropped,  blue  rifts 
appeared  above  the  grey  of  the  clouds.  Quick — away! 
They  had  re-tied  themselves,  when  Tartarin,  who  had  taken 
the  lead  as  before,  turned  round  and  said,  finger  on  his 
mouth, — 

"  You  know,  Gonzague,  all  that  has  been  said  is  quite 
between  ourselves." 

"  Te,  pardi  I  " 

Full  of  ardour,  they  resumed  their  way,  plunging  up  to 
their  knees  into  the  newly-fallen  snow,  which  had  obliterated 
all  traces  of  the  party's  ascent,  so  Tartarin  consulted  his  com- 
pass every  moment.  But  this  Tarascon  compass,  accus- 
tomed to  a  hot  climate,  had  been  frozen  since  its  arrival  in 
Switzerland.     The  needle  played  puss-iii-the-corner,  agitated 


The  Catastrophe  223 

and  trembling;  so  the  men  proceeded  straight  before  them, 
expecting  to  see  suddenly  the  black  rocks  of  the  Grands- 
Mulets,  calm  amongst  the  uniform  whiteness,  amid  the 
peaks,  needles,  and  towers,  which  surrounded  them;  which 
dazzled  and  alarmed  them  too,  for  dangerous  crevasses  might 
be  hidden  under  their  feet. 

"  Coolness,  Gonzague,  coolness !  " 

"  That  is  just  what  I  require,"  replied  Eompard  lamentably. 
Then  he  groaned:  "  Oh,  my  foot, — oh,  my  leg — we  are  lost: 
we  never  shall  get  home  again !  " 

They  walked  for  two  hours  towards  the  middle  of  a  snow- 
slope  very  hard  to  climb.     Then  Bompard  cried,  alarmed, — 

"  Taxtaxein,  this  ascends!  " 

"Eh!  I  can  see  that  very  well,"  replied  the  President, 
who  seemed  disturbed. 

"  But  in  my  opinion  we  ought  to  be  going  down !  " 

"  Be  I  yes;  but  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  }  If  we  keep 
ascending,  we  may  get  down  the  other  side !  " 

That  was  descending  indeed,  and  terribly,  by  a  succession 
of  neves,  almost  pointed  glaciers,  and  beyond  all  this  dangerous 
expanse  of  white  a  hut  was  perceived  perched  on  a  rock  at  a 
depth  that  seemed  inaccessible.  It  would  be  a  refuge  for 
the  night  if  they  could  reach  it,  as  they  had  lost  the  direction 
of  the  Grands-Mulets— but  at  the  cost  of  what  efforts,  what 
perils,  perhaps ! 

"  Whatever  you  do,  don't  let  me  go,  Gonzague!  " 

"  Neither  you  me,  Tartarin !  " 

They  exchanged  these  assurances  without  seeing  each  other, 
being  separated  by  an  arete  behind  which  Tarta'rin  had  dis- 
appeared, the  one  advancing  to  ascend,  the  other  to  descend, 
slowly  and  in  fear.  They  said  no  more,  concentrating  all 
their  strength  for  fear  of  a  false  step,  or  a  slip.  Suddenly, 
when  he  was  not  more  than  a  yard  from  the  crest,  Bompard 
heard  a  fearful  cry  from  his  companion.  At  the  same  time, 
he  felt  the  rope  give  way  with  violence,  and  with  an  irregular 
severance.  He  endeavoured  to  resist,  to  fix  himself,  in  order 
to  sustain  his  companion  over  the  abyss.  But  the  rope  was 
old,  no  doubt,  for  at  last  it  snapped  suddenly  under  the 
strain. 

"Outre!'' 

"  Boufre  1 " 


2  24  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

These  two  cries  arose,  wild  and  despairing,  in  the  silence 
and  the  solitude.  Then  succeeded  a  terrible  calm — the 
calmness  of  death,  which  nothing  could  trouble  more,  in  the 
vastness  of  the  immaculate  snows ! 

Towards  evening,  a  man  vaguely  resembling  Bompard — 
a  spectre,  dishevelled,  wounded,  in  profuse  perspiration — 
reached  the  aiiberge  of  the  Grands-Mulets,  where  they  rubbed 
him,  warmed  him,  and  put  him  to  bed,  ere  he  could  pronounce 
the  words — almost  choked  with  tears,  and  interrupted  by 
the  clenching  of  his  hands  towards  heaven:  "  Tartarin — 
lost — rope  broke !  "  At  length  they  understood  the  great 
disaster  which  had  happened. 

While  the  old  inn-keeper  was  lamenting,  and  adding  a  new 
chapter  to  his  accidents  on  the  mountain,  pending  the  arrival 
of  new  relics,  the  Swede  and  his  guides,  who  had  returned 
from  their  expedition,  set  out  in  search  of  the  unfortunate 
Tartarin,  with  ropes,  ladders,  and  all  the  apparatus,  alas! 
without  effect.  Bompard  remained  as  if  stupefied,  and  was 
unable  to  furnish  any  precise  information  as  to  the  place 
where  the  accident  took  place.  They  only  found  on  the 
Dome  du  Gouter  an  end  of  rope  which  remained  in  a  fissure 
of  the  ice.  But,  curiously  enough,  this  rope  was  cut  as  with 
a  sharp  instrument,  so  as  to  leave  two  ends.  The  newspapers 
of  Chambery  gave  a  facsimile  of  it.  At  length,  after  eight 
days'  searching,  conscientiously  undertaken,  when  every  one 
was  convinced  that  the  poor  Presidain  was  lost  without  hope 
of  recovery,  the  delegates,  despairing,  returned  to  Tarascon, 
carrying  Bompard  with  them — for  his  skull  showed  traces 
of  a  terrible  fall. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  it,"  he  would  say,  whenever  the 
accident  was  mentioned  to  him.  "  Never  speak  to  me  on  the 
subject !  " 

Decidedly,  Mont  Blanc  now  reckoned  one  more  victim! 
And  what  a  victim ! 


Epilogue  225 


XIV 

EPILOGUE 

A  MORE  impressive  place  than  Tarascon  cannot  be  found 
under  the  sun.  Sometimes,  in  high  jete,  on  Sundays,  when 
all  the  town  is  out  of  doors — the  drums  beating,  the  Cours 
festive  and  noisy,  dotted  with  green  and  red  costumes,  and  on 
the  great  party-coloured  posters  the  announcements  of  the 
wrestling  matches  for  men  and  youths,  and  the  bull-rings — 
it  is  enough  for  a  practical  joker  to  call  out  "  Mad  dog!  "  or 
"  Escaped  bull!  "  for  the  whole  population  to  run  in-doors, 
bolt  themselves  in,  the  outside  Venetian  blinds  clattering  as 
if  in  a  storm,  and  lo !  there  is  Tarascon  deserted,  silent,  not 
a  cat  visible,  not  a  sound  audible,  even  the  grasshoppers 
themselves  are  cowering  and  attentive  listeners. 

Such  was  the  appearance  of  Tarascon  on  this  particular 
morning,  when  it  was  neither  jete  day  nor  Sunday.  The 
shops  were  closed,  the  houses  shut  up,  squares  and  courts 
seemingly  larger  in  the  solitude.  "  Vasta  silentio,"  said 
Tacitus,  when  describing  Rome  on  the  occasion  of  the 
funeral  of  Germanicus;  and  the  comparison  of  Rome  in 
mourning  would  apply  so  much  better  to  Tarascon,  inas- 
much as  a  funeral  service  was  being  performed  for  the  soul  of 
Tartarin  at  that  time  in  the  metropolitan  church,  where  the 
population  en  masse  was  weeping  for  its  hero,  its  divinity, 
its  invincible  one  with  the  double  muscles,  who  lay  amid  the 
glaciers  of  Mont  Blanc. 

Now,  while  the  tolling  bell  was  showering  its  sad  notes 
upon  the  deserted  streets,  Mile.  Toumatoire,  the  Doctor's 
sister,  who  in  consequence  of  her  delicate  health  always 
remained  in-doors,  shivering  in  her  great  arm-chair  by  the 
window,  was  looking  out  as  she  listened  to  the  bells.  The 
Tournato ires'  house  was  on  the  Avignon  road,  almost 
opposite  to  Tartarin's  house,  and  the  sight  of  that  illustrious 
domicile,  to  which  the  proprietor  would  never  return,  the 
garden-gate  for  ever  closed — all,  even  to  the  boot-brushing 
boxes  of  the  two  little  Savoyards  by  the  door,  made  the  heart 
of  the  poor  lady  swell;  a  secret  passion  for  the  hero  having 


2  26  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

devoured  her  for  more  than  thirty  years !  0  mysteries  of  the 
heart  of  an  old  maid !  It  had  been  her  happiness  to  see  him 
pass  at  his  regular  time,  and  to  say,  "  Where  are  you  going?  " 
to  watch  the  alterations  in  his  costume,  whether  he  dressed 
in  his  Alpine  habiliments  or  in  the  green  coat!  Now,  she 
would  never  see  him  more!  And  even  the  consolation  of 
praying  for  him  with  the  other  ladies  of  the  town  was  denied 
to  her. 

Suddenly,  the  long,  white  cheeks  of  Mile.  Tournatoire 
coloured  slightly;  her  pale  eyes,  rimmed  with  rose-colour, 
dilated  considerably;  while  her  thin  hand,  with  its  prominent 
wrinkles,  formed  the  sign  of  the  cross.  He!  'twas  he! 
sidling  along  the  wall  at  the  other  side  of  the  street.  At 
first  she  was  under  the  impression  that  she  had  seen  an 
apparition.  No,  it  was  Tartarin  himself  in  flesh  and  blood; 
only  pale,  piteous-looking,  shabby;  sidling  along  the  wall 
like  a  poor  man  or  a  thief.  But  to  explain  his  furtive  presence 
at  Tarascon  we  must  return  to  Mont  Blanc,  to  the  Dome  du 
Go  liter,  at  the  precise  time  when  the  two  friends  found  them- 
selves one  on  each  side  of  the  Dome,  Bompard  feeling  the 
rope  which  attached  him  to  his  friend  suddenly  stretched,  as 
if  by  the  falling  of  a  body ! 

In  fact,  the  rope  had  caught  between  two  masses  of  ice; 
and  Tartarin,  feeling  the  same  shock,  also  believed  that  his 
companion  had  fallen,  and  would  drag  him  with  him!  So, 
in  that  supreme  moment — how  am  I  to  tell  it?  tnon  Dieu  ! — 
in  the  agony  of  fear,  both  men,  forgetting  the  solemn  oath 
at  the  Hotel  Baltet,  by  a  simultaneous  movement  and  the 
same  instinctive  gesture,  cut  the  rope !  Bompard  with  his 
hunting-knife,  and  Tartarin  with  his  ice-axe;  then,  over- 
whelmed by  their  crime,  both  convinced  that  they  had 
sacrificed  their  friend,  fled  in  opposite  directions ! 

When  the  spectre  of  Bompard  appeared  at  the  Grands- 
Mulets,  that  of  Tartarin  reached  the  canteen  of  d'Avesailles. 
How,  by  what  miracle,  after  so  many  falls  and  glissades  ? 
Mont  Blanc  alone  can  tell;  for  the  poor  P.  C.  A.  remained 
two  days  in  complete  insensibility,  incapable  of  uttering  the 
slightest  sound.  As  soon  as  he  was  fit,  he  came  down  to 
Courmayeur,  the  Italian  Chamonix.  At  the  hotel  he  heard 
nothing  but  the  report  of  the  melancholy  catastrophe  on 
Mont  Blanc,  quite  a  pendant  to  that  on  the  Cervin:  another 


Epilogue  227 

Alpine  climber  killed  in  consequence  of  the  fracture  of  the 
rope. 

In  the  conviction  which  he  experienced  concerning  Bom- 
pard,  Tartarin,  torn  by  remorse,  did  not  dare  to  rejoin  the 
delegates  nor  return  home.  He  anticipated  in  all  eyes  and  on 
every  lip:  "Cain,  where  is  thy  brother?"  However,  the 
want  of  funds,  the  condition  of  his  wardrobe,  the  cold  of 
September,  which  emptied  the  hotels,  compelled  him  to  pro- 
ceed homewards.  After  all,  no  one  had  seen  him  commit  the 
crime.  Nothing  need  prevent  him  from  inventing  no  matter 
what  tale;  and,  the  distractions  of  the  journey  assisting,  he 
commenced  to  pull  himself  together  again.  But  as  he 
approached  Tarascon,  when  he  saw  the  fine  lines  of  the 
Alpines  standing  forth  against  the  blue  sky,  all  the  shame, 
remorse,  and  fear  of  being  brought  to  justice  seized  upon 
him  again;  and,  to  avoid  the  scandal  of  an  arrival  on  the 
railway-station,  he  quitted  the  train  at  the  last  station  before 
the  town  was  reached. 

Ah!  on  this  fine  Tarascon  road,  all  white  and  crackling 
with  dust,  without  any  other  shade  than  the  posts  and  the 
telegraph-wires,  on  this  triumphal  way  where  so  many 
times  he  had  marched  at  the  head  of  his  Alpinists  or  his  cap- 
shooters,  who  would  have  recognised  him,  the  valiant,  the 
spruce,  under  those  torn  and  dirty  clothes,  with  that  defiant, 
restless  gaze  watching  the  gendarmes  ?  The  day  was  very 
warm  though  the  season  was  declining,  and  the  water-melon 
which  he  purchased  from  a  hawker,  and  ate  in  the  shade  of 
the  cart,  seemed  to  him  delicious,  while  the  peasant  declaimed 
against  the  want  of  custom  in  Tarascon  that  morning,  "  be- 
cause a  mass  for  the  dead  was  being  said,  for  a  person  found 
away  there  in  a  hole  in  the  mountains !  Te  !  the  bells  were 
tolling — they  could  hear  them  where  they  stood !  " 

There  was  no  longer  room  for  doubt:  it  was  for  Bompard, 
who  had  fallen,  that  this  lugubrious  carillon  of  death  was 
carried  by  the  wind  over  the  lonely  surounding  districts. 

WTiat  an  accompaniment  to  the  return  of  a  great  man  to 
his  native  place ! 

One  minute,  the  door  of  the  little  garden  was  suddenly 

opened  and  shut.    Tartarin  found  himself  again  at  home — 

he  saw  the  narrow  paths  bordered  with  trim  box  edging,  and 

quite  tidy;    the  basin,  the  fountain,  the  gold-fish  darting 

Q  423 


2  28  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

away  as  the  sand  crackled  under  his  feet,  and  the  giant 
baobab  in  the  flower  -  pot  —  a  touching  appearance  of 
comfort;  the  warmth  of  his  home  as  a  domestic  rabbit 
enveloped  him  like  a  cloak  of  safety  after  all  his  dangers 
and  adventures.  But  the  bells — the  cursed  bells — redoubled 
their  clangour,  and  their  deep  notes  crushed  into  his  heart 
anew.  They  kept  saying  to  him  in  funereal  tones:  "  Cain, 
where  is  thy  brother?  Tartarin,  what  hast  thou  done  with 
Bompard?"  Then,  without  having  the  courage  to  move, 
he  seated  himself  on  the  sunny  edge  of  the  little  basin,  and 
remained  there  exhausted  and  pensive,  to  the  great  disturb- 
ance of  the  gold-fish. 

The  bells  have  ceased.  The  church  porch,  lately  so 
animated,  is  given  up  to  the  beggar-woman  seated  there  as 
motionless  as  the  stone  saints.  The  religious  ceremony  is 
over,  all  Tarascon  has  proceeded  to  the  Alpine  Club,  where 
in  solemn  session  Bompard  is  about  to  give  an  account  of  the 
catastrophe,  and  to  detail  the  incidents  connected  with  the 
last  moments  of  the  President.  Besides  the  members,  many 
privileged  persons,  military,  clerical,  noble,  and  mercantile, 
had  taken  their  places  in  the  conference  hall,  of  which  the 
large  open  windows  permitted  the  band  stationed  below  on 
the  steps,  to  mingle  some  heroic  chords  with  the  discourses 
of  these  gentlemen.  An  enormous  crowd  pressed  around  the 
musicians,  standing  on  tip-toe  and  stretching  their  necks  in 
the  attempt  to  catch  some  fragments  of  the  discourse;  but 
the  windows  were  too  high  up,  and  they  could  obtain  no 
impressions  as  to  what  was  passing  within,  except  from  two 
or  three  youngsters  perched  in  a  tree  hard  by,  who  threw 
scraps  of  information  as  one  throws  nuts  or  cherries  from 
the  top  of  a  tree. 

"  Ve  Costecalde,  who  is  trying  to  make  him.self  weep! 
Ah!  the  blackguard,  he  holds  the  chair  at  present.  And 
poor  Bezuquet,  how  he  blows  his  nose,  how  red  his  eyes  are ! 
Te  /  they  have  put  crepe  on  the  banner.  And  Bompard 
is  coming  to  the  table  with  the  three  delegates.  He  puts 
something  on  the  desk.  He  speaks  now.  That  must  be 
beautiful!     Look,  how  the  tears  are  falling!  " 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  tenderness  became  general  as 
Bompard  advanced  in  his  fantastic  recital.  Ah!  memory 
came  back  to  him  again — also  imagination!    After  relating 


Epilogue  229 

how  he  and  his  illustrious  companions  got  to  the  sumnait  of 
Mont  Blanc,  without  guides,  for  all  had  refused  to  follow 
them,  being  alarmed  by  the  bad  weather,  and  how  they 
alone,  with  the  banner  displayed,  for  five  minutes  stood  upon 
the  highest  peak  in  Europe,  he  proceeded  to  recount — and 
with  what  emotion! — the  perilous  descent  and  the  fall — ■ 
Tartarin  rolling  to  the  bottom  of  a  crevasse,  and  he,  Bompard, 
attaching  himself  to  a  rope  two  hundred  feet  in  length,  had 
explored  the  hideous  chasm  throughout  its  whole  length! 

"  More  than  twenty  times,  gentlemen — what  do  I  say? — 
more  than  ninety  times  did  I  sound  that  abyss  of  ice  without 
being  able  to  reach  our  poor  Presidain,  whose  fall,  neverthe- 
less, I  could  trace  in  consequence  of  some  debris  left  in  the 
crevices  of  the  ice." 

As  he  spoke,  he  laid  on  the  table  a  fragment  of  a  jaw-bone, 
some  hairs  from  a  beard,  a  piece  of  a  waistcoat,  and  a  buckle 
from  a  pair  of  braces— one  would  have  declared  they  came 
from  the  relic-cases  at  the  Grands-Mulets ! 

In  face  of  this  testimony,  the  transports  of  grief  could  no 
longer  be  restrained ;  even  the  hardest  hearts,  the  partisans 
of  Costecalde  and  the  gravest  persons — Cambalalette  the 
notary,  Doctor  Tournatoire — shed,  most  eflfectively,  some 
tears  as  large  as  decanter  stoppers.  The  ladies  present 
uttered  piercing  cries,  which  dominated  even  the  sobbing 
howls  of  Excourbanids  and  the  bleatings  of  Pascalon,  while 
the  funeral  march,  played  by  the  band,  accompanied  all  with 
a  slow  and  lugubrious  bass. 

Then,  when  he  perceived  the  emotion  and  distress  his 
peroration  had  caused,  Bompard  ended  his  speech  with  a  fine 
gesture  of  pity  towards  the  remains,  as  conclusive  evidence : 
"  There,  dear  friends  and  fellow-citizens,  is  all  I  could  dis- 
cover of  our  illustrious  and  well-beloved  President.  The 
remains  the  glacier  will  render  up  to  us — in  forty  years!  " 

He  was  about  to  explain,  for  the  benefit  of  ignorant  people, 
the  recent  discovery  of  the  regular  progress  of  glaciers;  but 
the  creaking  of  the  little  door  at  the  end  interrupted  him — 
some  one  was  coming  in.  Tartarin,  paler  than  a  spirit  of 
Hume's  raising,  stood  before  the  speaker ! 

"  Fe/  Tartarin!" 

''  Te!  Gonzague !  " 

And  this  race  is  so  singular,  so  facile,  in  the  matter  of 


230  Tartarin  on  the  Alps 

improbable  stories,  audacious  falsehoods  and  quick  refuta- 
tions, that  the  arrival  of  the  great  man,  whose  fragments 
still  lay  on  the  table,  did  not  create  any  particular  astonish- 
ment throughout  the  hall. 

"  It  is  a  misapprehension,  allons  !  "  said  Tartarin,  very 
much  relieved — radiant — with  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of 
the  man  he  had  believed  he  had  killed.  "  I  did  the  Mont 
Blanc  on  two  sides — ascended  on  one,  descended  on  the  other 
— and  this  quite  accounts  for  my  disappearance." 

He  did  not  confess  that  he  had  passed  the  second  slope  on 
his  back ! 

"  Sacre  Bompard  /  "  said  Bezuquet;  "he  came  back  to 
us  with  his  story  all  the  same !  "  Then  they  all  laughed,  and 
rubbed  their  hands,  while  outside,  the  band,  which  they  in 
vain  attempted  to  silence,  furiously  attacked  the  Funeral 
March  of  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

"  Ve  Costecalde,  how  yellow  he  is !  "  murmured  Pascalon 
to  Bravida,  indicating  the  armourer,  who  had  risen  to  cede 
his  chair  to  the  old  President,  whose  good  face  shone  brightly. 
Bravida,  always  sententious,  replied  in  a  whisper,  as  he  per- 
ceived Costecalde  superseded — relegated  to  the  rank  of 
subaltern:  "The  luck  of  the  Abbe  Mandaire;  from  parish 
priest  he  was  relegated  to  curate."  ^ 

And  then  the  meeting  resumed. 

1  "  La  fortune  de  rahb6  Mandaire — 
De  cur6  il  devint  vicaire!  " — H.F. 


EVERYMAN'S    LIBRARY 

A  Selected  List 


In  each  of  the  thirteen  classifications  in  this  list  (except  Bio- 
graphy) the  volumes  are  arranged  alphabetically  under  the  authors' 
names,  but  Anthologies,  etc.,  are  Usted  under  titles.  Where 
authors  appear  in  more  than  one  section,  a  cross-reference  is 
given.  The  number  at  the  end  of  each  item  is  the  number  of 
the  volume  in  the  series. 


January    1954 


EVERYMAN'S    LIBRARY 


BIOGRAPHY 


Baxter  (Richard),  Autobiography  of  868 
Blake  (William),  Life  of.    By  Alexander 

Gilchrist.     Illustrated  971 

(See  also  poetry  and  drama) 
Bronte  (Charlotte),  Life  of.     By  Mrs. 

Gaskell  318 

(See  also  fiction) 
Bumey  (Fanny),  Diary  (1779-1840)  960 
Bums    (Robert),    Life    of.     By    J.    G. 

Lockhart  156 

(See  also  POETRY  AND  DRAMA) 

Byron's  Letters 

(.See  also  poetry  and  drama) 
Carlyle's  Reminiscences 

(See  also  essays  and  HISTORY) 
Cellini's  Autobiography 

Ckiwper  (Wm.),  Selected  Letters  of  774 

(See  also  poetry  and  drama) 
Dickens  (Charles),  Life  of. 

Forster.     2  vols. 

(See  also  FICTION) 
Evelyn's  Diary.     2  vols. 
Fox  (George),  Journal  of 
Franklin's  Autobiography 
Gibbon's  Autobiography 

(See  also  HISTORY) 
Goethe,  Life  of.     By  G.  H.  Lewes  269 
Hudson  (W.  H.),  Far  Away  and  Long 

Ago  (autobiography  of  his  youth)  956 
Johnson    (Dr.    Samuel),    Life    of.     By 

James  Boswell.     2  vols.  1-2 


931 


875 


51 


By  John 
781-2 

220-1 
754 
316 
511 


Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets.    2  vols. 

(See  alio  TRAVEL)  770-1 

Keats  (John),  Life  and  Letters  of.    By 

Lord  Houghton  801 

(See  also  poetry  and  drama) 
Lamb  (Charles),  Letters  of.  2  vols.  342-3 

(See  also  ESSAYS  and  FOR  YOUNG  people) 
Mahomet,    Life    of.     By    Washington 

Irving  513 

Napoleon,  Life  of.    By  J.  G.  Lockhart  3 
Nelson,  Life  of.     By  Southey  52 

Newcastle  (First  Duke  of).  Life  of,  and 

other  writings.     By  the  Duchess  of 

Newcastle  722 

Outram  (Sir  J.),  The  Bayard  of  India. 

By  Capt.  L.  J.  Trotter  396 

Pepys's  Diary.     New  enlarged  edition. 

3  vols.  53-5 

Plutarch's  Lives  of  Noble  Greeks  and 

Romans.     Dryden's   Translation.     3 

vols.  407-9 

Rousseau,  Confessions  of.  2  vols.  859-60 

(See  also  ESSAYS  and  PHILOSOPHY) 
Swift's  Journal  to  Stella.     Ed.  J.  K. 

Moorhead  757 

(See  also  essays  and  fiction) 
Vasari's  Lives  of  the  Painters.    4  vols. 

784-7 
Walpole  (H.),  Selected  Letters  of  775 
WeUington,  Life  of.  By  G.  R.  Gleig  341 
Woolman's  (John)  Journal  and  Other 

Papers  402 


CLASSICAL 


Aeschylus'  Lyrical  Dramas  62 

Aristophanes'  Comedies.  2  vols.  344, 516 

Aristotle's  Poetics,  etc.,  and  Demetrius 

on  Style,  etc.  901 

„         Politics  605 

(See  also  philosophy) 

Caesar's  War  Commentaries  702 

Cicero's  Essays  and  Select  Letters      345 

Demosthenes'  Crown  and  other  orations 

546 
Epictetus,  Moral  Discourses,  etc.  Eliza- 
beth Carter's  Translation  404 
Euripides'  Plays  in  2  vols.            63,  271 


Herodotus.     2  vols.  405-6 

Homer's  Iliad  453 

„         Odyssey  454 

Horace.  Complete  Poetical  Works     515 
Lucretius:  On  the  Nature  of  Things  750 


Marcus  Aurelius'  Meditations 
Ovid:  Selected  Works 
Plato's  Dialogues.     2  vols. 

„      Republic 
Sophocles'  Dramas 
Thucydides'  Peloponnesian  War 
Virgil's  Aeneid 

„     Eclogues  and  Georgics 


9 
955 
456-7 
64 
114 
455 
161 
222 


ESSAYS  AND  BELLES-LETTRES 


Anthology  of  English  Prose 
Arnold's  (Matthew)  Essays 

(See  also  poetry) 
Bacon's  Essays 

(See  also  philosophy) 


675 
115 


10 


Bagehot's  Literary  Studies.  2  vols.  520-1 
Burke's  Reflections  460 

(See  also  oratory) 
Canton's  The  Invisible  Playmate      566 

(See  also  for  YOUNG  pboplb) 


Everyman's  Library — Essays  &  Belles-Lettres — Continued 


Carlylc's  Essays.     2  vols.  703-4 

„         Past  and  Present  608 

„         Sartor    Resarrus    and    Heroes 

and  Hero  Worship  278 

{See  also  biography  and  history) 

Castiglione's  The  Courtier  807 

Century  of  Essays,  A.     An  Anthology 

of  English  Essayists  653 

Chesterfield's    (Lord)    Letters    to    his 

Son  823 

Coleridge's  Biographia  Literaria  11 

„  Essays     and     Lectures     on 

Shakespeare,  etc.  162 

(See  also  poetry) 

De  Quincey's(Thomas)Opium  Eater  223 
Dryden's  Dramatic  Essays  568 

Eckermann's  Conversations  with  Goethe 

851 
Emerson's  Essays.  1st  and  2nd  Series  12 
„  Representative  Men  279 

Gilfillan's  Literary  Portraits  348 

Hamilton's  The  Federalist  519 

HazUtt's  Lectures  on  the  English  Comic 
Writers  411 

„        The  Round  Table  and  Shake- 
speare's Characters  65 
„        Spirit  of  the  Age  and  Lectures 
on  English  Poets               459 
Table  Talk                           321 
Holmes's    Autocrat    of    the    Breakfast 
Table                                                    66 
Hunt's  (Leigh)  Selected  Essays         829 
Johnson  (Dr.  Samuel),  The  Rambler 

994 

Lamb's  Essays  of  Elia  14 

{See  also  biography  and  for  young  people) 

Landor's  Imaginary  Conversations  and 

Poems:  A  selection  890 

Lynd's   (Robert)   Essays   on   Life  and 

Literature  990 

Macaulay's  Essays.     2  vols.  225-6 

{See  aUo  HISTORY) 


Machiavelli's  The  Prince  280 

Milton's  Areopagitica,  etc.  795 

{See  also  poetry) 
Mitford's  Our  Village  927 
Montaigne's   Essays.     Florio's  transla- 
tion.    3  vols.  440-2 
Newman's  University  Education,  etc.723 

{See  also  PHILOSOPHY) 

Prelude  to  Poetry,  The.  Ed.  by  Ernest 
Rhys  789 

Quiller-Couch's  (Sir  Arthur)  Cambridge 
Lectures  974 

{See  also  fiction) 

Rousseau's  Emile,  or  Education  518 
{See  also  biography  and  philosophy) 

Ruskin's  Sesame  and  Lilies,  The  King 
of  the  Golden  River,  etc.     219 
„        Stones  of  Venice.      3  vols. 

213-15 

Spectator,  The.  By  Addison,  Steele, 
and  others.     4  vols.  164-7 

Spencer's  (Herbert)  Essays  on  Educa- 
tion 504 

Steele's  Tatler  993 

Sterne's  Sentimental  Journey  and  Jour- 
nal and  Letters  to  Eliza  796 
{See  also  fiction) 

Stevenson's  Virginibus  Puerisquc  and 
Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and  Books  765 
{See  also  fiction,  poetry,  and  travel) 

Swift's  Tale  of  a  Tub,  The  Battle  of  the 
Books,  etc.  347 

{See  also  BIOGRAPHY  and  fiction) 

Table  Talk.     Ed.  by  J.  C.  Thornton  906 

Thackeray's  (W.  M.)  The  English 
Humorists  and  The  Four  Georges. 

610 
{See  also  FICTION) 

Thoreau's  Walden  281 

Trench's  On  the  Study  of  Words  and 
English  Past  and  Present  788 

Tytler's  Principles  of  Translation     168 
Walton's  Complete  Angler  70 


FICTION 


Ainsworth's  Old  St.  Paul's  522 

„  Rookwood  870 

„  The  Tower  of  London  400 

„  Windsor  Castle  709 

American    Short    Stories    of   the    19th 

Century  840 

Austen's  (Jane)  Emma  24 

„  „      Mansfield  Park  23 

„  „     Northanger  Abbey      25 

„  „      Pride  and  Prejudice    22 

„  ,5      Sense  and  Sensibility  21 

Balzac's  (Honord  de)  Wild  Ass's  Skin  26 

„  „      Eugenie  Grandet  169 


Balzac's  (Honors  de)  Old  Goriot  170 

j>  „       The  Cat  and  Racket, 

and  Other  Stories  349 

„                 „        Ursule  Mirouet  733 

Barbusse's  Under  Fire  798 

Blackmorc's  (R.  D.)  Lorna  Doonc  304 

Borrow's  Lavengro  119 

„         Romany  Rye  120 

{See  also  travel) 

Bronte's    (Anne)    Tenant    of   Wildfell 

Hall  685 

„         (Charlotte)  Jane  Eyre  287 

„                 „          Shirley  288 


Everymari' s  Library — Fiction — Continued 


Bronte's  (Charlotte)  Villene  351 

„  „         The  Professor     417 

{See  also  biography) 

(Emily)  Wuthering  Heights  243 

Burney's  (Fanny)  Evelina  352 

Butler's  (Samuel)  Erewhon     and     Ere- 

whon  Revisited  881 

„    The  Way  ofAll  Flesh  895 

CoUins's  (Wilkie)  The  Moonstone    979 

„       The  Woman  in  White 

464 

Converse's  (Florence)  Long  Will      328 

(See  also  FOR  YOUNG  people) 

Dana's  Two  Years  before  the  Mast   588 

Defoe's  Captain  Singleton  74 

,,       Journal  of  the  Plague  Year    289 

Moll  Flanders  837 

(See  also  travel  and  FOR  young  people) 

Charles  Dickens's  Works: 

Bamaby  Rudge  76 

Bleak  House  236 

Christmas  Books  239 

David  Copperfield  242 

Dombey  and  Son  240 

Great  Expectations  234 

Hard  Times  292 

Little  Dorrit  293 

Martin  Chuzzlewit  241 

Nicholas  Nickleby  238 

Old  Curiosity  Shop  173 

Oliver  Twist  233 

Our  Mutual  Friend  294 

Pickwick  Papers  235 

Tale  of  Two  Cities  102 

(See  also  biography) 
Disraeli's  Coningsby  535 

Dostoevsky's  (Fyodor)  The       Brothers 
Karamazov.     2  vols.  802-3 
„  „         Crime  and  Pun- 

ishment 501 

„  „        The  Idiot      682 

„  „        Letters  from  the 

Underworld  and  Other  Tales  654 
„  „        Poor    Folk    and 

the  Gambler  711 
„         The    Possessed. 
2  vols.     861-2 
Du  Maurier's  (George)  Trilby  863 

Dumas's  Black  Tulip  174 

,,        The  Count  of  Monte  Cristo. 
2  vols.  393-4 

,,        Marguerite  de  Valois  326 

„        The  Three  Musketeers  81 

„        Twenty  Years  After  175 

Edgeworth's  Castle  Rackrent  and  The 
Absentee  410 

Eliot's  (George)  Adam  Bede  27 

,,        Middlemarch.     2  vols. 
854-5 
Mill  on  the  Floss     325 


Eliot's  (George)  Romola  231 

„  „        Silas  Mamer  121 

English  Short  Stories.   Anthology.   743 
Fenimore   Cooper's   The   Last   of  the 
Mohicans  79 

„  „  The  Prairie      172 

Fielding's  Amelia.     2  vols.  852-3 

„         Jonathan  Wild  and  The  Jour- 
nal of  a  Voyage  to  Lisbon  877 
„         Joseph  Andrews  467 

„         Tom  Jones.     2  vols.     355-6 
Flaubert's  Madame  Bovary  808 

„  Salammbo.  869 

„         Sentimental  Education     969 
France's  (Anatole)  At  the  Sign  of  the 
Reine  Pedauque  and  The  Revolt  of 
the  Angels  967 

French  Short  Stories  of  the   19th  and 
20th  Centuries  896 

Gaskell's  (Mrs.)  Cranford  83 

Gogol's  (Nicol)  Dead  Souls  726 

„  „       Taras  Bulba  and  Other 

Tales  740 

Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wakefield         295 

(See  also  poetry) 

Goncharov's  Oblomov  878 

Gorki's  Through  Russia  741 

Grossmith's     (George     and     Weedon) 

Diary  of  a  Nobody.     Illustrated  963 

Hawthorne's  The  House  of  the  Seven 

Gables  176 

„  The  Scarlet  Letter       122 

(See  also  FOR  young  people) 

Hugo's  (Victor)  Les  Mis6rables.  2  vols. 

363-4 

,,  „       Notre  Dame  422 

„       Toilers  of  the  Sea    509 

Jefferies'  (Richard)  After  London  and 

Amaryllis  at  the  Fair  951 

(See  also  for  YOUNG  PEOPLE) 

Kingsley's  (Charles)  Hereward  the  Wake 

296 
„  „       Westward  Ho!     20 

(See  also  poetry  and  for  young  people) 
Loti's  (Pierre)  Iceland  Fisherman  920 
Lover's  Handy  Andy  178 

Lytton's  Last  Days  of  Pompeii  80 

Marryat's  Mr.  Midshipman  Easy        82 

(See  also  for  young  people) 
Maupassant's  Short  Stories  907 

Melville's  (Herman)  Moby  Dick       179 
Typee  180 

M6rim6e's     Carmen,     with     Provost's 
Manon  Lescaut  834 

Mickiewicz's  (Adam)  Pan  Tadeusz  842 
Mulock's  John  Halifax,  Gentleman  123 
Pater's  Marius  the  Epicurean  903 

Poe's  Tales  of  Mystery  and  Imagination 

(Sec  also  POETRY)  336 


Everyman's  Library — Fiction — Continued 


Prevost's  Manon  Lescaut,  with  M6ri- 
mee's  Carmen  834 

Quiller-Couch's     (Sir    Arthur)     Hetty 
Wesley  864 

(See  also  essays) 

Radchffe's  (Ann)  Mysteries  of  Udolpho. 
2  vols.  865-6 

Reade's    (C.)    The    Cloister    and    the 
Heanh  29 

Richardson's  (Samuel)  Clarissa.    4  vols. 

882-5 

5,  „        Pamela.     2  vols. 

683-4 

Russian  Authors,  Short  Stories  from  758 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  Works: 

Bride  of  Lammermoor  129 

Guy  iVlannering  133 

Heart  of  Midlothian,  The  134 

Ivanhoe.     Intro.  Ernest  Rhys  16 

Kenilworth  135 

Old  Mortality  137 

Quentin  Durward  140 

Redgauntlet  141 

Rob  Roy  142 

Talisman,  The  144 

Shelley's  (Mary)  Frankenstein  616 

Shorter  Novels,  Vol.  I.  Ehzabethan  824 

Shorter  Novels,  Vol.  H.  Jacobean  and 
Restoration  841 

Shorter  Novels,  Vol.  HI.     18th  Century 

856 

Sienkiewicz  (Henry k).  Tales  from     871 
„  „         Quo  Vadis  ?  970 

Smollett's  Humphry  Clinker  975 

„         Roderick  Random  790 

Somerville  and  Ross :  Experiences  of  an 
Irish  R.M.  978 

Sterne's  Tristram  Shandy  617 

{See  also  ESSAYS) 

Stevenson's  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde, 
The  Merry  Men  and  Other  Tales  767 


Stevenson's  The  Master  of  Ballantrae 
and  The  Black  Arrow    764 
„  Treasure  Island  and  Kid- 

napped 763 

(See  also  essays,  poetry,  and  travel) 
Surtees's  Jorrocks's  Jaunts  and  JolUties 

817 

Swift's  Gulliver's  Travels.     Unabridged 

Edition,  with  contemporary  maps  60 

(See  also  essays  and  biography) 

Thackeray's  Esmond  73 

„  Newcomes.    2  vols.    465-6 

„  Pendennis.    2  vols.    425-6 

„  Vanity  Fair  298 

„  Virginians.    2  vols.     507-8 

(See  also  fssays) 

Tolstoy's  Anna  Karenina.  2  vols.  612-13 

„  Master  and  Man,  etc.         469 

„  War  and  Peace.  3  vols.   525-7 

Trollope's  (Anthony)  Barchester  Towers 

30 

„  „     Dr.  Thome  360 

„  „     Framley     Parsonage 

181 

J,  „     The  Last  Chronicles 

of  Barset.     2  vols. 

391-2 

„  „     Phineas  Finn.  2  vols. 

832-3 

„  „     The  Small  House  at 

AUington  361 

„  „     The  Warden  182 

Turgenev's  Fathers  and  Sons  742 

„  Liza,  or  A  Nest  of  Nobles 

677 

„  Smoke  988 

„  Virgin  Soil  528 

Twain's     (Mark)     Tom     Sawyer     and 

Huckleberry  Finn  976 

Voltaire's  Candide,  etc.  936 

Zola's  (fimile)  Germinal  897 


HISTORY 


Bede's  Ecclesiastical  History,  etc.      479 
Carlyle's  French  Revolution.    2  vols. 

31-2 

(See  also  BIOGRAPHY  and  essays) 
Chesterton's    (Cecil)    History    of    the 

United  States  965 

Creasy's  Fifteen  Decisive  Battles  of  the 

World  300 

Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 

Empire.     Ed.  by  Oliphant  Smeaton, 

M.A.     6  vols.  434-6,  474-6 

(See  also  biography) 
Green's   Short  History  of  the  English 

People.     2  vols.  727-8 

Kolinshed's     Chronicle     as     used     in 

Shakespeare's  Plays  800 


Lutzow's      Bohemia:      An      Historical 
Sketch.     Revised  edition  432 

Macaulay's  History  of  England.  4  vols. 
(See  also  essays)  34-7 

Maine's  Ancient  Law  417 

Motley's  Dutch  Republic.  3  vols.  86-8 
Paston  Letters,  The.  2  vols.  752-3 
Prescott's  Conquest  of  Mexico.    2  vols. 

397-8 
„        Conquest  of  Peru  301 

Stanley's     Lectures     on     the     Eastern 
Church  251 

Thierry's  Norman  Conquest. 2  vols.  198-9 
Villehardouin  and  De  Joinville's  Chron- 
icles of  the  Crusades  333 
Voltaire's  Age  of  Louis  XIV  780 


Everyman's  Library 


ORATORY 


Anthology  of  British  Historical  Speeches 
and  Orations  714 

Burke's  American  Speeches  and  Letters 
{See  alio  ESSAYS)  340 


Fox  (Charles  James) :  Speeches  (French 

Revolutionary  War  Period)  759 

Lincoln's  Speeches,  etc.  206 


PHILOSOPHY  AND  THEOLOGY 


A  Kempis'  Imitation  of  Christ  484 

Aquinas,   Thomas:    Selected   Writings. 

Ed.  by  Rev.  Fr.  D'Arcy  953 

Aristotle's  Ethics  547 

(See  also  classical) 
Bacon's  The  Advancement  of  Learning 

(See  also  essays)  719 

Berkeley's  (Bishop)  Principles  of  Human 

Knowledge,  New  Theory  of  Vision 

483 
Browne's  Religio  Medici,  etc.  92 

Bunyan's   Grace  Abounding   and  Mr. 

Badman  815 

(See  also  romance) 
Burton's  (Robert)  Anatomy  of  Melan- 
choly.    3  vols.  886-8 
Chinese  Philosophy  in  Classical  Times. 

Trans,  and  ed.  by  E.  R.  Hughes    973 
Descartes'    (Rend),    A    Discourse    on 

Method  570 

Hindu  Scriptures  944 

Hobbes's  Leviathan  691 

Hume's    Treatise    of   Human    Nature. 

2  vols.  548-9 

James   (William):    Selected  Papers   on 

Philosophy  739 

Kant's  Critique  of  Pure  Reason         909 
King  Edward  VL     First  and  Second 

Prayer  Books  448 

Koran,  The.  Rodwell's  Translation  380 


Law's   Serious  Call  to  a  Devout  and 

Holy  Life  91 

Leibniz's  Philosophical  Writings       905 
Locke's  Two  Treatises  751 

Malthus  on  the  Principles  of  Population. 

2  vols.  692-3 

Mill's     (John     Stuart)     Utilitarianism, 

Liberty,  Representative  Government 

482 
More's  (Sir  Thomas)  Utopia  461 

New  Testament  93 

Newman's     (Cardinal)     Apologia     pro 

Vita  Sua  636 

(See  also  hssays) 
Nietzsche  s  Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  892 
Paine's  (Tom)  Rights  of  Man  718 

Pascal's  Pens6es  874 

Ramayana  and  the  Mahabharata,  The  403 
Renan's  Life  of  Jesus  805 

Robinson,  Philosophy  of  Atonement  637 
Rousseau's  (J.  J.)  The  Social  Contract, 

etc.  660 

(See  aho  essays  and  BIOGRAPHY) 

St.  Augustine's  Confessions  200 

„  The  City  of  God.  2  vols. 

982-3 

St.  Francis:   The  Little   Flowers,  and 

The  Life  of  St.  Francis  485 

Spinoza's  Ethics,  etc.  481 

Svvedenborg's     (Emanuel)     The    True 

Christian  Religion  893 


POETRY  AND  DRAMA 


Anglo-Saxon  Poetry.  794 

Arnold's  (Matthew)  Poems  ^34 

(See  also  ESSAYS) 

Ballads,  A  Book  of  British  572 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  The  Selected 

Plays  of  506 

Blake's  Poems  and  Prophecies  792 

(See  also  BIOGRAPHY) 

Browning's  Poems.     Vol.  I,  1833-44  41 

„         Poems.  Vol.  II,  1844-64  42 

„         Poems  and  Plays,  Vol.  IV, 

1871-90  964 

„  The  Ring  and  the  Book  502 

Burns's  Poems  and  Songs  94 

(See  also  BIOGRAPHY) 
Byron's  Poetical  Works.    3  vols.    486-8 
(See  also  biography) 


Calderon:     Six    Plays,    translated  by 

Edward  FitzGerald  819 

Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales  307 

,,         Troilus  and  Criseyde  992 

Coleridge,  Golden  Book  of  43 

(See  also  essays) 

Cowper  (WiUiam),  Poems  of  872 

(See  also  BIOGRAPHY) 

Dante's  Divine  Comedy  308 

Donne's  Poems  867 

Dryden's  Poems  910 

Eighteenth-Century  Plays  818 

English  Galaxy  of  Shorter  Poems  959 

Everyman  and  other  Interludes  381 

FitzGerald's  Omar  Khayyim,  etc.  819 


Everyman's  Library — Poetry  and  Drama — Continued 


Golden  Treasury  of  Longer  Poems    746 
Goldsmith's  Poems  and  Plays  415 

(See  also  fiction) 

Gray's  Poems  and  Letters  628 

Heine :  Prose  and  Poetry  9 1 1 

Ibsen's  Brand  716 

„      A  Doll's  House,  The  Wild  Duck, 

and  The  Lady  from  the  Sea  494 

„       Ghosts,  The  Warriors  at  Helge- 

land,  and  An  Enemy  of  the  People  552 

Ibsen's  Peer  Gynt  747 

,,      The      Pretenders,      Pillars      of 

Society,  and  Rosmersholm  659 

International  Modern  Plays  989 

Jonson's  (Ben)  Plays.    2  vols.       489-90 
Keats's  Poems  101 

(See  also  biography) 
Kingsley's  (Charles)  Poems  793 

(See  also  FICTION  and  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE) 

La  Fontaine's  Fables  991 

Langland's  (William)  Piers  Plowman  571 
Lessing's  Laocoon,  etc.  843 

Longfellow's  Poems  382 

Marlowe's  Plays  and  Poems  383 

Milton's  Poems  384 

(See  also  ESSAYS) 
Minor  Elizabethan  Drama.  2  vols.  491-2 
Minor  Poets  of  the  18th  Century      844 
Minor  Poets  of  the  17th  Century      873 


Moli^re's  Comedies.     2  vols.         830-1 
New  Golden  Treasury,  The  695 

Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  96 

Poe's  (Edgar  Allan)  Poems  and  Essays  79 1 

(See  also  fiction) 
Pope  (Alexander) :  Collected  Poems  760 
Restoration  Plays  604 

Rossetti's  Poems  and  Translations    627 
Shakespeare's  Comedies  153 

J,  Historical  Plays,  Poems, 

and  Sonnets  154 

„  Tragedies  155 

Shelley's  Poetical  Works.   2  vols.    257-8 
Sheridan's  Plays  95 

Silver  Poets  of  the  16th  Century       985 
Spenser's  Faerie  Queene.   2  vols.   443-4 
„  Shepherd's  Calendar,  etc.  879 

Stevenson's  Poems  768 

( See  also  ESSAYS,  FICTION,  and  TRAVEL) 

Swinburne's  Poems  and  Prose  961 

Tchekhov.     Plays  and  Stories  941 

Tennyson's  Poems,  1829-92.    2  vols. 

44,  626 
Webster  and  Ford.     Plays  899 

Whitman's  (Walt)  Leaves  of  Grass   573 
Wilde  (Oscar):  Plays,  Prose  Writings, 
and  Poems  858 

Wordsworth's  Longer  Poems  311 


REFERENCE 


Biographical  Dictionary  of  English 
Literature  449 

Everyman's  English  Dictionary.  Ed. 
by  D.  C.  Browning,  M.A.  776 


Literary  and  Historical  Atlas.  America. 
Many  coloured  and  line  Maps;  full 
Index  and  Gazetteer  553 


The  following  volumes  in  this  section  are  now  in  the  special  edition  of 
Everyman's  Reference  Library: 


Atlas  of  Ancient  &  Classical  Geography 
Dictionary  of  Dates 
Dictionary  of  Quotations  and  Proverbs 
Dictionary  of  Non-Classical  Mythology 
Dictionary  of  Shakespeare  Quotations 


Smaller  Classical  Dictionary.     (Revised 
from  Sir  William  Smith) 

Thesaurus     of    English     Words     and 
Phrases.     (Revised  from  Peter  Roget) 


ROMANCE 


Aucassin    and    Nicolette,    with    other 

Medieval  Romances  497 

Boccaccio's  Decameron.  (Unabridged.) 

2  vols.  845-6 

Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress  204 

(See  also  PHILOSOPHY) 
Burnt  Njal,  The  Story  of  558 

Cervantes'  Don  Quixote.    2  vols.    385-6 
Chretien  de  Troyes:  Eric  and  Enid,  etc. 

698 


Heimskringla :  Sagas  of  the  Norse  Kings 

847 
Kalevala.     2  vols.  259-60 

Mabinogion,  The  97 

Malory's LeMorted'Arthur.  2  vols.  45-6 
Marie  de  France,  Lays  of  557 

Nibelungs,  The  Fall  of  the  312 

Rabelais'   The   Heroic   Deeds   of  Gar- 
gantua  and  Pantagruel.  2  vols.   826-7 


Everyman's  Library 


SCIENCE 


Boyle's  The  Sceptical  Chymist  559 

Darwin's  The  Origin  of  Species        811 

(See  also  travel) 
Euclid:  the  Elements  of  891 

Faraday's  (Michael)  Experimental  Re- 
searches in  Electricity  576 
Harvey's  Circulation  of  the  Blood  262 
Howard's  State  of  the  Prisons  835 
Locke's  Essay  on  Human  Under- 
standing 984 
Marx's  (Karl)  Capital.     2  vols.      848-9 


Owen's  A  New  View  of  Society,  etc.  799 
Pearson's    (Karl)    The    Grammar    of 
Science  939 

Ricardo's   Principles  of  Political  Eco- 
nomy and  Taxation  590 
Smith's  (Adam)  The  Wealth  of  Nations. 
2  vols.                                            412-13 
White's  Selbome.     New  edition         48 
Wollstonecraft  (Mary),  The  Rights  of 
Woman,  with  John  Stuart  Mill's  The 
Subjection  of  Women  825 


TRAVEL  AND  TOPOGRAPHY 


A  Book  of  the  'Bounty'  950 

Borrow's  (George)  The  Bible  in  Spain 

151 

(See  also  fiction) 
Boswell's   Tour  in   the   Hebrides   with 

Dr.  Johnson  387 

(See  also  BIOGRAPHY) 
Cobbett's  Rural  Rides.     2  vols.     638-9 
Cook's  Voyages  of  Discovery  99 

Cr^vecoeur's  (H.  St.  John)  Letters  from 

an  American  Farmer  640 

Darwin's  Voyage  of  the  Beagle  104 

{See  also  science) 


Defoe's    Tour    through    England    and 

Wales.     2  vols.  820-1 

(See  also  FICTION  and  FOR  YOUNG  people) 

Kinglake's  Eothen  337 

Polo's  (Marco)  Travels  306 

Portuguese  Voyages,  1498-1663        986 

Stevenson's  An  Inland  Voyage,  Travels 

with     a     Donkey,     and      Silverado 

Squatters  766 

(See  also  ESSAYS,  FICTION,  and  POETRY) 

Wakefield's  Letter  from  Sydney,  etc.  828 

Waterton's      Wanderings      in      South 

America  772 


FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE 


Aesop's  and  Other  Fables  657 

Alcott's  Little  Men  512 

„    Little  Women  &  Good  Wives  248 

Andersen's  Fairy  Tales.     Illustrated  by 

the  Brothers  Robinson  4 

Browne's  (Frances)  Granny's  Wonderful 

Chair  112 

Bulfinch's  The  Age  of  Fable  472 

Canton's    A    Child's    Book   of   Saints. 

Illustrated  by  T.  H.  Robinson         61 

(See  also  ESSAY:fi 
Carroll's  Alice  in  Wonderland,  Through 

the  Looking-Glass,  etc.      Illustrated 

by  the  Author  836 

Collodi's    Pinocchio:    the    Story    of   a 

Puppet  538 

Converse's   (Florence)    The   House   of 

Prayer  923 

(See  also  fiction) 
Defoe's       Robinson       Crusoe.      Parts 

I  and  II  59 

(See  also  fiction) 
Fairy  Tales  from  the  Arabian  Nights. 

Illustrated  249 

Grimms'    Fairy  Tales.     Illustrated   bv 

R.  Anning  Bell  56 

Hawthorne's  Wonder  Book  and  Tangle- 
wood  Tales  5 

(See  also  fiction) 


Howard's  Rattlin  the  Reefer  857 

Hughes's    Tom    Brown's    Schooldays. 
Illustrated  by  T.  Robinson  58 

JeflFeries's  (Richard)  Bevis,  the  Story  of 
a  Boy  850 

(See  also  FICTION) 

Kingsley's  Heroes  113 

,,  Water  Babies  and  Glaucus 

(See  also  POETRY  and  fiction)  277 

Lamb's      Tales      from      Shakespeare. 
Illustrated  by  A.  Rackham  8 

(See  also  BIOGRAPHY  and  e-ssays) 

Lear:  A  Book  of  Nonsense  806 

Marryat's  Children  of  the  New  Forest 

247 
„  Masterman  Ready  160 

(See  also  fiction) 

Mother     Goose's     Nursery     Rhymes. 
Illustrated  473 

Sewell's  (Anna)  Black  Beauty.     Illus- 
trated by  Lucy  Kemp- Welch         748 

Spyri's  (Johanna)  Heidi.     Illustrations 
by  Lizzie  Lawson  431 

Stowe's  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  371 

Verne's     (Jules)     Twenty     Thousand 
Leagues  Under  the  Sea  319 

Wyss's  Swiss  Family  Robinson.     Illus- 
trated by  Charles  Folkard  430 


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